


La Vie En Rose

by infalliblefandoms



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Drinking, Enjolras is an Idiot, F/M, Les Amis - Freeform, Les Mis AU, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Paris (City), Police Brutality, Protests, Riots, Seranading, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Students, all that fun stuff, combeferre is a beautiful human, courfeyrac is a magical fairy of goodness, drunken rants, i dont even know anymore, jehan does spoken word poetry, oblivious idiots being oblivious, paris porn, ridiculous boys and girls, seriously, small Children, some songs are sung, sorry Hugo, tags are hard man, the best kind of poetry, the very slowest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infalliblefandoms/pseuds/infalliblefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Paris as they know it, as they have always known it.</p><p>Them. They. That group of impossible and intractable kids who grew up too fast and too violently. Children of circumstance. Children desperate to fight, with their cardboard swords and dustbin lid shields. Not quite grown-ups, just on the cusp of adulthood, their mouths full of angry words and their eyes brimming with a furious indignation.</p><p>School kids. Students of the Sorbonne. Friends. Comrades.<br/>A group that can ignite fury just as well as they can host a pizza-movie night.</p><p>
  <em>An academic, a vigilante, a flirt, a poet, a cynic, an artist, a bruiser, a dark horse, a healer, a klutz, a gypsy, a puppy, a feminist brainiac, and a young delinquent. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Le Premier Pas

**Author's Note:**

> la premier pas  
>  _[fr.]_ the first step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductory chapter that is kind of a disjointed mess. But hey, who needs properly constructed narrative.

 

Paris is an old city. Majestic and grand, but undoubtedly old. It's sprawling and intricate, woven and patched. The arrondissements sewn each to each, with the swollen seam of the Seine both dividing and binding between them. The city is a delicate, labyrinthine quilt work. To know Paris is to know each stitch and join, each frayed edge and hole and tear, every secret tack and mend. 

 

This is Paris as they know it, as they have always known it.

 

Them. They. That group of impossible and intractable kids who grew up too fast and too violently. Children of circumstance. Children desperate to fight, with their cardboard swords and dustbin lid shields. Not quite grown-ups, just on the cusp of adulthood, their mouths full of angry words and their eyes brimming with a furious indignation.

 

Just kids. It's a hard fact to remember, looking at them. Mismatched and inane and unexplainable as they are.

 

Just as much a patchwork as their grandiose city. 

 

And they _should_ be horribly discordant, should by all logical deduction be a complete jarring mess.

But instead it's as though they wouldn't make sense anywhere besides together. 

As if the strange harmony they have is neither constructed, nor forged, but somehow providential.

 

School kids. Students of the Sorbonne. Friends. Comrades.

 

A group that can ignite fury just as well as they can host a movie night.

 

An academic, a vigilante, a flirt, a poet, a cynic, an artist, a bruiser, a dark horse, a med-student, a klutz, a gypsy, a puppy, a feminist brainiac, and a young delinquent. 

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

Paris in autumn is an ending. The bright thrill of summer fades, hidden beneath carpets of fallen leaves. The verdure of the warmer months is stolen away by oranges and reds and the clement October rain. The avenues are hushed and awash with golden haze. The street lamps beam a soft light, and the warmth of August fades with the glittering reflections on the Canal Saint-Martin.

 

It's a gentle conclusion, the bewitching season of lights and muted colour, of festivals and shorter days. It's the city in sleepy preparation for the frost.

 

Grantaire has always been partial to autumn. Summer was always too busy, too frantic, and winter too cruel for his threadbare clothes to stand. Spring was the city on show, but the cheer had always felt false to him, forced even. And the smell of the candy floss that Jehan adores, hanging heavy in the air around the Foire du Trône, had always seemed sickly.

 

But autumn agrees with him. It's melancholy. The weather is changeable, but soothing, and the rain always seems more romantic when paired with russet hues and quiet boulevards.

 

Autumn also means the return of Enjolras' winter coats. Especially the black one he wears with the colour turned up when the wind is biting. Perhaps that coat alone is the reason Grantaire loves the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

"Fuck shit fucking _damnit._ "

 

Starting the day with no smokes is pretty much the equivalent of trying to pole-vault with a cactus, in Grantaire's books. He curses every deity he can think of ( _save one_ ) for his lack of tobacco and sets himself the more attainable goal of _coffee_. He hunts around for a vaguely non-offensively smelling shirt and tugs it on before crossing to the window. It's raining. So, great. Brilliant start to an already shitty day. He watches a woman rush down the opposite side of the road, fighting a losing battle with her sorry looking umbrella and looking quite ready to burst into tears. He feels a pang of sympathy for her. But then remembers he's supposed to be feeling sorry for himself.

 

He faintly registers his need to shower, but the world has made him feel particularly apathetic this morning, so he figures that it can kindly fuck off and deal with him being unwashed. He finds some socks at the bottom of his duvet and tugs them on before venturing out of the bedroom.

 

He finds Jehan in the kitchen, perched on the counter and sipping tea from a chipped mug. His nose is scrunched from the cold, and he's swinging his legs to the beat of some inaudible tune. Grantaire grabs at one of his legs as he enters the kitchen, before it can collide with his crotch, and tugs teasingly.

 

" _Hey!_ " Jehan squeals as his tea sloshes and he teeters on his perch. "Dick," he sticks his tongue out at Grantaire. Proper, mature twenty one year old, that one.

 

"Aloha," is Grantaire's grumbled morning greeting.

 

It takes him, on average, thirty minutes to regain consciousness once awake. He sometimes doesn't emerge from his room till well past noon, and thoroughly confuses his friends by sending texts out at two o'clock asking whether or not they want to go out to grab some breakfast.

 

"Oh, well don't you sound cheerful today." Jehan grins and pinches Grantaire's cheek, already red with cold. His offensively chipper flatmate is already dressed, one of Grantaire's faded Led Zeppelin t-shirts tucked into frayed, greying skinny jeans, a patterned cardigan thrown over the top in forest green and soft lavender. He's still wearing his bed socks - a pair of the fluffy striped things he buys in bulk from some discount store in Les Halles.

 

"Feck off, would you? Pesky little bastard. I need coffee. _Bella Pronto_."

 

Jehan scuffs a hand through his sandy hair, streaked with summer highlights that are refusing to fade out. It's shaggy and still mussed from sleep, and falls just level to the tip of his chin. It's not the longest he's ever worn it, but it's the longest he's had it since moving to the city. It sends a pang of nostalgia through Grantaire's chest, and he reaches out to tuck a strand behind Jehan's ear, and drop a kiss on the tip of his nose.

 

Jehan giggles at the impromptu affection. "If that was thanks for the coffee I already made you, then you're very welcome."

 

Grantaire spots a steaming mug by the sink, and makes an embarrassing noise of gratitude. He grabs the cup off the counter and inhales through his nose, cold fingers curling round the warmth of the ceramic. He moans obscenely around his first mouthful.

 

"Ah, I knew there was a reason I kept you around." He smirks around a commendable amount of hot liquid.

 

"Mmm. To make sure you pay rent on time… to remind you of uni deadlines… to declare your room a biohazard and general threat to the human populace on a bi-monthly basis." He ticks them off on long, slender fingers.

 

Grantaire scoffs and downs the rest of his coffee. He pinches a piece of toast from Jehan's plate and finishes it in four bites. Jehan scowls at him, before chuckling fondly and reaching out to wipe the smear of jam from corner of Grantaire's mouth.

 

" _You'll miss me when I'm gone_." He whispers ominously, smile playing on his lips.

 

"You keep telling yourself that. Now I'm pretty sure I was meeting someone today… though god knows why I agreed to go out in such atrocious weather…"

 

"Well, you didn't know it was going to be raining when you arranged it, so…"

 

"Yeah, ok. Shhh," Grantaire places a finger against Jehan's quirked lips. "Logic isn't fun. It's too early and I'm too sober."

 

He scratches the back of his head and squints out the window, decorated with rivulets left by the rain. He moves to scrape his fingernail across the flaking paint on the windowsill and hums thoughtfully. Jehan's voice sounds behind him.

 

"It's Feuilly, by the way. Who you're meeting."

 

He turns from the window and points at Jehan, shooting him a look that says ' _you know, I think you're right'._

 

"I'm always right."

 

Grantaire's expression rearranges, eyebrows raised in a challenge of ' _oh really?'_. He steals the last of Jehan's toast, which elicits an indignant screech from the blonde. He chews it and leans against the counter opposite, unfazed.

 

"Shit, well. Better get dressed to impress, then."

 

Jehan seems to forgive him for the toast thievery, but swings a leg out to kick Grantaire's ass anyway.

 

"Yeah. Those struggling artistic types really do have high expectations when it comes to fashion."

 

"Oh Jehan, you are just so wise." Grantaire smirks and gives him a peck on the cheek as he passes, ruffling his hair. "And I do love you, really. Long time."

 

Jehan laughs ringingly, and goes back to swinging his legs in time with that same obscure beat.

 

"Fuck off and put some clothes on. You're such an idiot."

 

Grantaire blows him a kiss as he saunters into the other room, leaving Jehan to shake his head at the retreating mop of impossible dark curls.

 

 

 

 

 _ _

 

 

 

Grantaire is the kind of person you are simultaneously intimidated and intrigued by. He can charm the pants off you, if he is in the mind to - grin his crooked grin, cock one eyebrow, make a witty retort, and you'll be swooning on the sidewalk. He's quite the enigma. Brilliant but careless. Withdrawn but flirtatious. Apathetic but argumentative. He's crookedly handsome, with asymmetric features, electric blue eyes and wild, untameable dark hair. He's a series of contradictions, a paradox, an aporia. He has a sharp tongue and is absurdly clever, and there is little about him that you could guess from a first look.

 

He isn't jaunty like Courfeyrac, or sagacious like Jehan. He isn't as brassy as Bahorel or as calculating as Feuilly. He doesn't have Combeferre's quiet grace or Eponine's fiery determination. 

He is simply Grantaire. Inscrutable, unfathomable Grantaire.

 

Someone who feels deeply, and is rash and emotional. Someone who loves despite a broken, luckless heart.

 

He loves Jehan, who he sees as nothing less than a brother. Beautiful, clever Jehan, who he's known since he was ten. Jehan, who used to sneak into his room and share his bed, who can read him as though Grantaire's every thought is written between the lines of one of his old notebooks, who used to buy him CD's from thrift stores and hold his hand even when he was too proud to ask.

 

He loves Eponine, that wild, uncontainable kid he'd first met when she was but five years old, and she'd kicked his shins and stolen his chocolate. They'd made peace when she was fourteen, and he was about to begin his final year of high school. She'd set him with a glare when he'd dared to raise his eyebrows at the pack of cigarettes she pulled out. That had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, one full of cursing, pining, mutual understanding, basic telepathy, bad decisions, the unwholesome and the maudlin.

 

He loves Feuilly, who empathises with his tortured artist's soul, who spends hours with him wandering around the city for creative inspiration, who understands when he talks about aesthetics and artistic appreciation, who lets him smoke inside the studio and who is unusually perceptive to his moods, knowing when a hand on the shoulder is enough, and when he needs fresh air, beer and someone to commiserate. 

 

He loves Bahorel and Bossuet, those ridiculous, loud assholes he's known since the tail end of school. Bahorel, who puts up with none of his whining, and drinks with him until neither of them can stand or remember, and Bossuet, whose incessant cheerfulness can cut through even the worst of his depressive moods. 

 

He loves Courfeyrac, even when he's suppressing the urge to mess up his pretty face, because he gets that pang in his heart when he thinks of all the times Courf has looked after him, cleaned up his vomit, washed his clothes, fed him, given him exceptional and comforting hugs when words seemed hollow.

He loves Joly and Combeferre and Musichetta, thought a little more quietly, as even when they're affectionate with him he feels monumentally undeserving, his chest seizing with a gratefulness and sentimentality that is frighteningly unfamiliar.

 

He loves Gavroche, with a fierce paternal intuition that terrifies him. When the boy disappears, he worries for him till his head throbs and his feet are sore from pacing. And when the kid's around, hanging from Courf's back or being chased by Bahorel, his jaw aches with the force of his grin.

 

He loves Cosette. Has ever since they met. The two of them had been holding hands by the end of the night, to Marius' horror. And Marius, who despite all the teasing, became one of his greatest friends, and who makes the best homemade pizza known to man.

 

And Enjolras.

 

He loves Enjolras like he's starving. Desperate and hopeless, like a dying man clawing his way through a desert. He loves Enjolras until his heart aches in the silent hours of the night and his eyes are rubbed red and drooping. He has loved nothing else, not like this, since that first meeting. His pitiful heart had been bursting by the time he'd left that evening, those passionate words swarming in his mind, pushing tears from his eyes and forcing him to his knees behind his closed bedroom door as he came with a bitten off sob and a whispered name, still unfamiliar on his lips.

 

He loves Enjolras with his art, rendering his adoration in paint, pencil and pastels, over and over until his arms and fingers know the contours of that face and body more intricately than they do themselves. He loves him until he's livid, his fist against the wall making plaster dust shake from the roof, his hands in his hair pulling and wrenching till his cranium aches. He loves Enjolras until he can look without seeing. Until he can gaze into those blue eyes without hot tears pricking in his own. He loves him until he is careless, until he no longer bothers with self-preservation or pride. Until he can't control the alternation between naked reverence and fabricated coolness. Until his body yearns for contact, to be handled and used. Until his self respect is lost along with the illusion of blonde curls and icy eyes. Until he is drunk enough to think of nothing, nothing important, emptiness nothing, things with no point, no end, of no consequence. Preferable to relentless thoughts of perfect hands on his body, of bitten-red lips and flushed skin, smooth and yielding, as far as possible from that usual rigidity and poise.

 

He loves Enjolras like it's vital, like it's important. Like loving him is his purpose, his life's work, the one thing he could be good for. He loves Enjolras like it doesn't matter he's not loved back.

He loves Enjolras like he's constantly gasping for breath.

Like his heart is being torched.

Like his pulse is playing tricks on him.

He loves Enjolras without expectation. Resigned. Pitiful. As though he's content with the knowledge that he would die and kill and walk through fire for a man who counts him a nuisance, an acquaintance. A friend on the best kind of day. 

 

He loves Enjolras as though nobody knows. With every tear cried into every pillow on every sleepless night.

 

  

 

 

 _ _

 

 

 

He meets Feuilly at their usual place, a tiny little cafe on the Avenue de l'Opéra, that sells the most delectable blueberry muffins and is an easy five minutes from the studio.

 

"Christ, it's like a wind tunnel out there. I swear, I thought my hair was going to blow away." Grantaire calls out as he closes the door behind him.

 

Eloise, the girl behind the counter, laughs and shoots him a sympathetic smile.

 

"Right? I fucking hate wind." Feuilly grumbles as he gets up to hug Grantaire in greeting.

 

"What are we reading?"

 

Feuilly turns the book over to show Grantaire, who whistles appreciatively.

 

"Kafka. Jesus. No one would believe me if I told them you were entirely self-taught." He grins at his friend and sprawls out in his chair. "You really never cease to be brilliant, do you?"

 

Feuilly flushes and he shakes his head around an embarrassed smile.

 

"Shut up."

 

"Oh, apologies. Am I making you blush?"

 

"Screw you. Now, these banners..."

 

"Straight to business. I like that in a man."

 

Feuilly laughs again, fondly exasperated.

 

"The _banners_. They don't need to be done for a good three weeks, they're not even for the next protest. But Enjolras kind of stressed that he wanted _big._ So I thought we should get our shit together now so we aren't screwed a few weeks down the track."

 

"Mmm. Fair enough. So did O Mighty One have any other specifications? Or did he just accost you one day and shout _BIG_ in your face? Because I seriously would not put that past him."

 

"No, unfortunately that's not how it went down. I think he just wants some things he can hang behind the stage, y'know, that can be seen a long way off. Bright, clear, bold, you know the drill."

 

"Ah, don't I just. And what exactly are these banners protesting against?"

 

Feuilly sighs, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

 

"You are actually hopeless, you know that right?"

 

"Of course. How else would I sleep at night?"

 

"Cahuzac, basically. Him and Augier and every other political scandal that's come to light over the last six months. Enjolras wants to use the protest as an opportunity to stir up some dissension. I mean, obviously the majority of people are disappointed by Hollande, but Enjolras wants to get them really angry. Make them see that the Socialists are just as corrupt and incompetent as Sarkozy's government. You know, show them that they need to take a stand, that they've given us no choice but to take drastic action."

 

"Oh, that is just so Enjolras…" he laughs weakly and accepts his espresso from Eloise. "Don't worry, I'm not going to start ranting about the futility of the cause or the invariable beast that is political upheaval. I'm a good friend. I'll let you drink your coffee in peace."

 

"Kind of you."

 

"Don't mention it."

 

  

 

 

_ _

 

 

  

It's a Thursday night, and a quiet one, as though the clouds are muffling all the world's sounds and cloaking Paris in a sleepy stillness. The stars are mostly blotted out by the milky canopy, save a few that peek through and glint dimly over the darkened streets.

 

Jehan, Grantaire and Eponine are huddled before Courfeyrac and Marius' cherished fireplace, faces set aglow by the warm shifting light. 

 

It's a funny thing, Grantaire muses, that something so easily destructive is so often a source of comfort. The fire crackles loudly, light flaring. Jehan leans toward the flames, warming his face, eyelids closed and fluttering at every wave of heat. Grantaire's thoughts shift naturally to a pair of blue eyes so frequently alight with the same flames - that consuming, passionate light that he's so helplessly drawn to. Fire and ice. Fury and vengeance. Unfairly beautiful. The most fucking erotic thing his own sad eyes have ever had the pleasure of glancing upon. Like molten lava, or those blue flames that look hot enough to freeze. _But we don't think about that_. 

He forces himself to look away from the mantelpiece, and instead turns toward his two oldest friends - the fierce, dark-haired slip of a girl and the sweet, graceful boy with his wide green eyes and honey-dipped hair. He smiles at the sight of Eponine in Courfeyrac's too-big pyjama pants and Jehan's comfiest sweater, a ginormous lumpy grey thing that hangs to her knees. The jumper is a somewhat hallowed object among them, bestowed upon whomever happens to need it's depthless comfort most. Courfeyrac had once joked that the three of them should forever be referred to as the Sisterhood of the Lumpy Jumper. Unfortunately for him, the name hadn't stuck. 

 

Said host reappears then, a bottle of shitty whiskey in hand.

 

"Right then, Lumpy Jumps, make room for Papa Courf, whiskey connoisseur and comforter extraordinaire."

 

Apparently he still pulls out the nickname for special occasions, then. He settles himself behind Eponine and pulls her back into his arms, tucking her up under his chin and rocking her gently. Jehan, not one to sit alone if cuddling is an option, shuffles across to Grantaire and curls up in his lap. Grantaire strokes the hair from his face and presses a kiss to the crown of his head before wordlessly gesturing for the bottle of whiskey.

He tips his head back and swallows a generous mouthful, his eyes falling closed as it burns down his throat before settling, warm and familiar, in his belly. One more mouthful and then he passes the bottle to the boy in his lap. Courfeyrac buries his face in the folds of Eponine's hair, wiping away each tear before it even has a chance to fall.   


Outside, it's quiet. The world hangs still.

 

They're ok.

 

 

And if the three of them are a little more reserved around Marius than usual over the next few days, nobody mentions it.

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

Enjolras has never been particularly cohabitational. His first year out of home had been spent in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Le Marais. He enjoys being alone. He likes quiet. He likes a controlled environment. He likes not having to compromise on anything, because he's nothing if not stubborn. 

But after he'd turned nineteen and realised that his life was in no rush to slow down, he'd resigned himself to the fact that a student without a paying job was being grossly impractical if they thought they could make rent on an inner-city Parisian apartment by themselves whilst running an activism cooperative and attending university. He received money from his parents to cover rent, but that was his sole income. 

He'd finally resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to give up the luxury of living alone. 

 

And that was how he'd ended up signing his name below Combeferre's on the lease for a two bedroom attic apartment in Saint Germain, with a slightly decrepit mansard roof and slanting windows.

 

His parents aren't overly wealthy, but they'd always been fairly well off. He'd been sent to a prestigious boys school, after all. Something he'd always been profoundly grateful for. He'd enjoyed a privileged education, had been lucky enough to be taught by many brilliant, inspired men and women. He'd aced his baccalaureate (though Combeferre had bested him by a few percentage points… not that he's holding any grudges) and became a student at the Panthéon-Sorbonne. 

 

He has loving parents, concerned though they are about his extra-curricular pursuits, a brilliant group of friends, some truly inspiring professors. He has a lot of things to be grateful for. And Combeferre is very much at the top of that list.

 

They'd met when they were five years old, at the birthday party of a mutual friend. Enjolras had made the guest of honour cry by throwing his ice cream into the dirt. In Enjolras' defence, the little shit had been dictating to the rest of his pudgy five year old cronies that the girls weren't allowed to join in on the party games because girls are _stoopid_. The parents hadn't said anything, so Enjolras had simply taken the matter into his own (tiny) hands. Combeferre had been impressed by this stand against pre-pubescent sexism, and had asked his parents if Enjolras could have a play-date at their house.

 

And yes, the rest really was history. There was never two people more acutely attuned to each other. They complimented each other. Combeferre tempered Enjolras' reckless, fervent personality, and Enjolras inspired Combeferre out of passivity. They were inseparable from the get-go, and had been mistaken for a couple countless times.

 

Combeferre's family were wealthy. Excessively so. His family home looked like a certifiable castle. Enjolras' family might have been financially comfortable, but he'd been in awe the first time he experienced the fortune of his friend.

 

Over time, as they grew up together, his awe swiftly lessened and morphed into reproachfulness. Opulence was not something he was especially fond of. Thankfully, Combeferre shared those feelings, and neither of them felt much nostalgia toward that aspect of their childhood. Combeferre much preferred visiting Enjolras' parents than his own.

 

Their faux-status as a couple only grew more prominent after they'd moved in together. They found it endlessly amusing, and rarely bothered to correct people's assumptions. There was little point, as they both knew that their relationship was a little closer than conventional friendship, and no one ever believed that two people so intimate with each other were not romantically involved. But their friendship had always been of the platonic variety. Discounting the adolescent crushes they had harboured for each other for a short while when they were fourteen. It was after those few awkward months that they realised the love they felt for each other was not romantic, and the attraction not sexual. Just a deep, pure bond of admiration and absolute trust. They shared beds sometimes, and were extremely tactile with one another. Even found themselves trading lazy kisses at times. But it was a comfort thing. And Combeferre had found that he was attracted to girls for the most part anyway. Didn't mean he couldn't indulge in some mutual affection once in a while. It was easy between them, and always had been. And Combeferre is a great kisser.

 

He does sometimes miss the silence of his old apartment, where he could spend peaceful, solitary hours undisturbed, but living with Combeferre isn't half bad. 

 

For a start, Enjolras is the most disorganised person he knows, and he knows Grantaire _and_ Bahorel. So living with someone who's about as meticulous as a cartography-dabbling textbook editor certainly has it's upsides. The unfortunate catch, however, is that Combeferre's home is open to all. Which their friends take as a blanket invitation to visit whenever they please, stay as long as they want, eat what they desire and make a general mess of things. There is rarely a quiet moment in the place, what with Gavroche begging for pancakes on Sunday mornings, social gatherings at least three times a week, Joly turning up to do Enjolras' damned fortnightly check up, and Courfeyrac spending more time at their place than he does his own so he _doesn't feel left out of the holy trinity._

 

Against his will, he's starting to get used to constantly having people around.

 

Starting to enjoy it. Depend on it, even.

 

Starting to miss it when he's alone.

 

Damn them all.

 

So yes, perhaps he's been forced into becoming a little more cohabitational. He can study with loud music blasting in the next room, has become accustomed to having at least one house guest for every meal, can wash dishes that aren't his own without feeling bitter.

 

But his bedroom, that is the one place which remains firmly sacred. 

 

Those ridiculous clowns he calls friends are welcome to trample over the rest of the apartment as much as they please, they can strip the cupboards bare and pass out on the couch. But the bedroom - _strictly off limits_. Well, excluding those three times he'd let Grantaire use his bed when he'd turned up too drunk to stand. Enjolras had slept on the couch. Irrelevant. 

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

The Musain isn't a hole-in-the-wall cafe. It isn't on a busy thoroughfare or a bustling street corner. It isn't a popular Parisian haunt nor is it a seedy dive bar. 

 

It's more of a home.

 

A cafe by day and a bar by night, it's an old edifice, with cracked stonework and flaking windowpanes. But it's a handsome building, charming passers-by with it's air of old-worldly elegance. It stands proud on a sleepy corner, tucked away in the haphazard streets of Montmartre, a haven for those seeking a time and a place to simply sit and think.

 

There are memories carved into the wooden rafters, stories etched into the stone. Music lingers in every corner, and the graceful curve of the bar offers unspoken comfort to it's patrons. 

 

Some would stumble upon it and see something magnificent - a building with _character_. The oxblood red of the double doors, the warm, twinkling light beyond the windows. How it beckons and entices the weary wayfarer.

 

Others would see a neglected cafe, tired, worn and crooked. A sorry place not too many winters away from decrepit. They would walk on, without a second glance, and never pass that way again.

 

Madame Hucheloup was the 'comely matron' of the institution, as Courfeyrac lovingly put it. She was rotund and sharp-tongued, somewhere between fifty and sixty, it was impossible to tell. And though she'd die before admitting it, she was fond of her regulars - those loud, ridiculous, libertarian boys and their hangers-on. They could fight for freedom in her little cafe as much as they pleased, so long as they didn't break any furniture. _(They did. But she never kicked them out.)_

 

At some point, _Old Loupy_ (as Grantaire had even more lovingly dubbed her) decided that her creaky bones couldn't withstand the work any longer, and she handed management over to her most capable waitress, an exotic creature by the name of Musichetta. She'd been working there for less than a month, but there was something about her. Something that said she could do it. And damn could she do it. The changeover was so smooth it went unnoticed. The charismatic little cafe was in capable hands.

 

Musichetta had taken a little getting used to. The boys were thoroughly accustomed to dealing with a dumpy grey-haired lady, being scolded and swatted at with brooms, drinking unsavoury coffee. It was quite an adjustment for them when Musichetta swept in, with her smooth brown skin, long legs and head of dark, tumbling curls. They drooled for a while, and flirted (Courfeyrac), and tried to earn her favour. She was unmovable, however, and apparently couldn't be won over with batted eyelashes or ridiculous displays of chivalry. They were still scolded, it was just that now the scoldings were more sexual fantasies realised.

 

Musichetta's coffee was delicious, and soon became revered. And the bar was quite unlike the few depressingly bare shelves that Hucheloup had kept. It was sparkling, fancily-lit and fully stocked. (Grantaire fell a little bit in love at that point.)

 

She enlisted Bahorel to help her drag out all of the scrappy furniture from the back corner. She then recruited Feuilly to clean out the space and unearth the small stage that had been hiding all those years. Courfeyrac would later say that it had just been biding it's time, waiting for the opportune moment before it would proclaim itself his personal grandstand. Grantaire and Feuilly sourced an old upright and a scuffed acoustic guitar. Musichetta bought speakers and mics, and then to the delight of everyone but Enjolras, a karaoke machine.

 

It was around this point that the other regulars sighed and resigned themselves to the fact that the group of students basically had free reign over the entire place.

 

Courfeyrac christened the stage with a choreographed rendition of Jonathan Coulton's 'Baby Got Back', to rapturous applause and commendation.

 

From the outside, the Musain looked exactly as it always had, and they were glad for it. One couldn't tell, gazing upon it from the street, how Musichetta had Cinderella'd the place. The magic was bottled up inside the walls.

 

It was still their home, simply a better one.

 

 

_"We'll keep you," Jehan had said to Musichetta one evening._

 

_She'd simply smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek._

 

_"There was never a question, love."_

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

"We're not doing a fly over, you moron."

 

Bahorel scowls for the fifth time as his enthusiasm is once again shot down.

 

"But I could _totally_ be Tom Cruise in Top Gun."

 

"You don't know how to fly a fucking plane. Like, at all." Feuilly sighs at his roommate, looking unimpressed. But he looks unimpressed the majority of the time, so there isn't a huge distinction.

 

Combeferre looks over to where Enjolras is standing, taking deep, calming breaths the way Jehan had taught him to, and shoots him a sympathetic grimace. Enjolras looks ready to gouge his own eyes out, or bludgeon someone to death with his sociology textbook, or breathe fire. But Combeferre has boundless faith in Enjolras' careful restraint, and, as expected, his oldest friend successfully represses all of his homicidal urges.

 

He simply heaves out a sigh and flops back into his chair, waving one hand wearily toward the group as he looks down at his notes. They are dismissed.

 

Courfeyrac whoops and drags Grantaire from his seat toward the stage at the back of the Musain.

 

Combeferre sighs, but can't suppress the fond upward tug of his lips. He crosses the room to where Enjolras is hunched, frowning, over his notebook. He places a hand on one tensed shoulder, and at the touch Enjolras slumps fully forward, disrupting his notes as the stress leaves his body and he groans into table. Combeferre takes a seat beside him and packs away all of the loose-leaf and binders and books. Enjolras turns his head where it's cradled in his arms and gives Combeferre a grateful look, the corner of his mouth even tugging upward a little. Combeferre smiles and ruffles his hair.

 

Courfeyrac had been fussing over the karaoke machine, and before Combeferre can say any more, the opening strains of 'Like A Virgin' explode throughout the cafe. Enjolras groans again, pretending to sob into his hands.

 

"You know you love them, really." Combeferre smiles. Enjolras flips him off.

 

"Yeah, ok. So you hate them with a fiery passion. Got it."

 

Grantaire makes his way off the stage and attempts to make Enjolras' steely composure to crack. _"Touched for the very first time,"_ he swivels his hips and winks lewdly at Enjolras, who has straightened up in his seat to glare disdainfully at the performance. Grantaire fails to gain a reaction, but the effort is commendable. Courfeyrac dances with Eponine onstage while the rest of the room belt out the final chorus.

 

Enjolras somehow manages to type out several Important Emails whilst his friends became progressively drunker, singing louder and more horrifically with every song. He's rubbing his eyes aggressively when Combeferre speaks up again.

 

"Go home. _Sleep._ They'll all seem less like devil spawn in the morning, I promise."

 

Enjolras sighs bodily and admits defeat. He bids Combeferre goodnight sometime around the second verse of 'Last Friday Night', dodging a flailing Marius on his way to the door, who's endeavouring to dance after three beers - Marius' limit when it comes to drinking, despite Grantaire's attempts to school him in the fine art of alcohol consumption.

 

The boy in question only manages to smack Enjolras in the head once with a wayward arm. And that is definitely praiseworthy.

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

The following morning, Combeferre, Enjolras and Joly are back at the Musain, barricaded into their seats by stacks of books and precarious mountains of paper.

 

Combeferre glances up when Eponine and Grantaire walk in, his brow furrowing in confusion, as the two are not known for being overly studious. Or studious at all. But not one to discourage academic pursuits, he greets them warmly and gestured for them to sit down.

 

"Hey guys." Joly smiles up at them briefly, before returning his attention to his hefty medical textbook.

 

Enjolras doesn't look up.

 

"Enjolras says hi," Combeferre offers, rolling his eyes.

 

Grantaire simply grunts and crosses to the counter to bother Musichetta for caffeine.

 

Combeferre's confusion returns when Feuilly shows up, looking thoroughly pissed off and heading straight over to the counter to join Grantaire.

 

Eponine visibly perks up when Grantaire sets her drink down on the table. The three of them set about inhaling their coffee, not even bothering with the pretence of conversation when there is caffeine to be consumed. Combeferre can't resist another eye roll.

 

Enjolras' head snaps up suddenly and he eyes the already empty cups with a manic gleam in his eye.

 

"Coffee?" he inquires sharply, as though he's saving his words for more important pursuits and therefore can't spare more than two syllables.

 

Grantaire sighs dramatically.

 

"Don't sprain something. I'll get it."

 

He sighs again when he stands up and Enjolras still hasn't moved.

 

" _I'm on it_. Jesus, you have a problem," and then, " _Carry on!_ " when the blonde still hadn't returned to his work.

 

When Grantaire returns (with Enjolras' exact coffee order, how surprising), he receives thanks in the form of a minute nod. But he's used to that, so whatever.

 

Feuilly lets out a horrible kind of _ugghhmmphfflerrhgd_ sound as he slumps across the table, and Eponine rubs his back and nods sagely, as though he'd just uttered something deeply profound.

 

Thankfully, the reason for their being at the cafe at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning waltzes through the door then, wearing well worn grey skinny jeans and an overlarge, green cable-knit fisherman's jumper.

 

" _Jehannnnnnn,"_ moans Grantaire, who'd been told by his roommate to _be_ _at the Musain at nine or i'll set fire to your hoodie and your classic dvd collection,_ "I had no idea you were secretly the spawn of Satan."

 

Jehan smiles sweetly at him and presses a kiss to his temple before greeting the rest of the group with a horrifically cheerful grin.

 

"Morning!"

 

He receives two more strangled sounds from Feuilly and Eponine, an apologetic smile from Combeferre, a distracted wave from Joly and no response from Enjolras.

 

Combeferre shakes his head, not for the first time that morning, and repeats his weary " _Enjolras says hi_ ".

 

Cosette walks in five minutes later, and Combeferre is at an absolute loss. When Musichetta appears from behind the counter and pulls up a chair, he lets out a whispered " _what is happening_ ", now on the edge of his seat and fretting, unaccustomed to this feeling of _not knowing._

 

"So, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here today."

 

" _Oh my god Jehan now is not the time._ "

 

"Grantaire."

 

"Sorry."

 

"Combeferre, this doesn't exactly concern you, so sorry for interrupting."

 

"It's fine," he manages to strangle out, curiosity about to cause his head to implode.

 

Jehan sits back and motions for Cosette to take over.

 

"Right. So bear in mind that we have all of your best interests at heart - Enjolras pay attention please - and we are only doing this out of love for you. Jehan, Musichetta, Joly and I have been discussing -  _ENJOLRAS -_ a particularly bad habit you all share…"

 

Combeferre deflates in his seat and smiles, now up to speed.

 

Grantaire, however, frowns, and exchanges a quizzical look with Eponine, who shrugs and goes back to massaging her temples.

 

Enjolras is frowning too, and glaring at Cosette, who is unperturbed.

 

She lets them suffer a little longer before sighing, "It's the coffee, guys."

 

" _WHAT!?"_ Feuilly screeches and falls out of his chair.

 

Enjolras' mouth is gaping and Grantaire and Eponine are staring at each other intensely, as though trying to telepathically scrub the words from each others' minds.

 

"It's unhealthy," Joly squeaks. "You're all over-dependent on caffeine… and it's unhealthy.." he repeats, a little meekly.

 

"But.. _what?!_ " Feuilly chokes out from his position on the floor. "Coffee is my fucking lifeblood."

 

"Yes, exactly," comes Musichetta's consolatory reply.

 

"But… coffee." Enjolras offers lamely.

 

Combeferre places a soothing hand on his friend's back, his kind eyes empathetic.

 

Deciding that everyone looks far too upset, Jehan jumps up, beaming.

 

"It's a TEAtervention!"

 

"I swear to god, if you just said what I think you just said…"

 

Musichetta cuts Grantaire off as she flounces back to the counter.

 

"My dears, a TEAtervention!" she grins impishly. "It's delicious, _and_ nutritious!"

 

Grantaire and Enjolras groan simultaneously.

 

"Oh come on. Tea is wonderful. Jol?"

 

"Exactly! Guys, come on! It tastes good, it still contains caffeine, it's easier to make..!"

 

"But it's not _coffee._ " Eponine practically spits. Joly whimpers and inches further away.

 

"It's much better for you. Just try it." Jehan takes a moment to glance around at the group, his green doe eyes shining with immense hope. "Please. For _us_ …"

 

"You can't just expect me to stop drinking coffee…" Enjolras scowls.

 

"Oh, of course not. It's purely for my peace of mind -  being able to sleep at night knowing you haven't consumed upwards of seven strongly caffeinated beverages in a single day." Joly smiles serenely at them, chin tucked into his turtleneck sweater.

 

"We're thinking three coffees a day, max. You know, early morning, mid-morning, afternoon..." Jehan is trying to pet Grantaire's hair but the artist keeps displacing his hand with stroppy, dramatic tosses of his head.

 

"Only  _three!?_ " Feuilly, by this point, is practically hyperventilating on the floor by Cosette's feet.

 

"Yes, dearest. But we'll give you a week to come to terms with your new arrangement." Cosette folds her hands in her lap like a smug movie villain.

 

"Cosette! That wasn't the plan!" Joly shout-whispers across the table.

 

"I know, but look at them." She gestures around her at the four panicking coffee aficionados. "They average about six cups a day. I may be many things, but cruel is not one of them."

 

Joly sighs. Enjolras joins him. Combeferre is shocked by how easily he's acquiesced, but isn't about to go and ruin a good thing.

 

Musichetta grins and claps her hands. "Pot of tea, anyone?"

 

Four pairs of eyes turn to stare balefully at her.

 

"Yes, please." Jehan asks sweetly.

 

Feuilly lets out a theatrical sob, and three tragic moans sound in response.

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

Courfeyrac is a restless soul. It's physically impossible for him to sit still for any longer than two and a half minutes without spontaneously combusting.

He's the one whose knee is always bouncing, whose eyes were always darting and observing, his fidgeting hands needing to be occupied by this or that, but never one thing for too long.

He's charming, with green eyes that are quick and expressive and a lopsided grin that's as warm as it is teasing.

He is also prone to dramatic renditions of show tunes. But that's another story entirely.

 

 

It's a Sunday, and as is his way on Sundays, Courfeyrac leaves Marius at home to go for his customary jaunt around the city.

The weather is favourable, and he walks the Seine for the better part of an hour, stopping occasionally at the vendors to look through their sprawling merchandise. He skims over book spines to see if he could find anything for Combeferre or Enjolras. He stops by the artists occasionally, should his eye be caught by a sketch or watercolour he thinks R would particularly enjoy. He finds battered volumes of poesy, dusty and worn, and tucks them under his arm, happy to pay a few euros to see Jehan's face light up in appreciation. Sometimes he chances upon an antique dealer, and picks something out for Feuilly. A wind up clock perhaps, or a carved wooden fan. Once, he'd bought Bahorel an old pair of boxing gloves (they now have pride of place in his and Feuilly's living room - hanging from a nail in the wall). Another time he'd bought a handkerchief for Joly, and was rewarded with an appropriately horrified reaction. Though Bossuet did scold him afterwards.

 

His favourite people to gift, however, are Eponine and Marius. 

Eponine has eclectic taste, and delights in any trinket or keepsake Courfeyrac presents her with. That they so clearly aren't a form of charity is the only reason she accepts them. There isn't much she can do with a vintage postcard, wrinkled world map, or miniature umbrella, after all.

Courfeyrac guilts Marius into accepting his gifts, insisting that they are a token of friendship and that he would be grievously offended should Marius refuse to accept them. And that's how Marius ends up with The Little Book of Butterflies on his bookshelf, alongside a tiny pewter lion and a china circus elephant. Courfeyrac knows how much Marius loves elephants.

 

He strolls through the Tuileries after tiring of the river, and lazily makes his way through the streets till he finds himself wandering through his favourite market. Most of the people he passes greet him warmly. They know his face well. He grins and tosses a euro to Maurice, the pudgy little man with rosy cheeks and cheerful smile who sells the freshest fruit in all of Paris, and helps himself to a shiny red apple on his way past, tossing it once, twice in the air before biting in and letting the juice dribble down his chin. He smiles up at the sun, peeking through at him between the terraced roofs, before continuing down the winding streets.

 

He ends up buying Musichetta a ukulele, and Cosette a Billy Holiday CD.

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Wednesday nights are sacred.

 

Work shifts accommodate for it, study is done in time for it, illnesses are put on hold for it. Skipping a Wednesday night is basically blasphemy. It just isn't done. Even Enjolras attends. Well, it takes place at his and Combeferre's apartment, so his presence is kind of required, though he complains about it loudly and at length every time it rolls around.

 

Wednesday night is Game of Thrones night. 

 

As it's hosted at Enjolras', it's sacred to Grantaire for a whole host of other reasons. Not that he is ever going to admit to that. He simply doesn't have many excuses to visit the place, which is really too bad, because he is in _love_. With the apartment, that is. He has nothing against his and Jehan's bizarre little flat, but Enjolras and Combeferre's place is pants-dropping fabulous. Ok, unfortunate choice of words, but the point still stands. Gorgeous old hardwood floors, and everything so white and spacious and tidy. The couches are heavenly, though well-used, and the TV is by far the most revered object amongst the group. Which really says something. The rug in the living room is worn but gorgeous, an old Persian that Enjolras' parents had given him when he'd moved out. The kitchen is fantastic, though barely used, and he can't comment on Enjolras' bedroom, as obviously that's out-of-bounds (..though he does have some fuzzy recollection of a Tricolour flag pinned to a ceiling… but that's neither here nor there…) But the bathroom, _oh._ Grantaire has dreams about that shower. He's had the pleasure of using it a few times, and the memories have haunted him ever since. Water pressure of the Gods. 

 

The point, if we were to stop being so tangential, is that Grantaire likes Wednesday nights. And so it's with his usual, nervous Wednesday-night anticipation that he knocks on the door to Enjolras and Combeferre's at 6:35.

 

To his poorly disguised disappointment, it's Courfeyrac who answers the door.

 

"R! My main man! You're totally late, but hey, I won't hold it against you…"

 

They walk through to the living room where eleven friends are already happily installed, the twelfth being Cosette, who's in the kitchen making tea in bulk. 

 

As always, Grantaire's eyes immediately seek Enjolras out. He's on the couch with Musichetta and Jehan, nodding along as Combeferre talks animatedly with his hands. His eyes flick up as they enter, and settle on Grantaire. He lifts his head slightly in greeting, before turning back to his oldest friend. Grantaire shakes off the buzz that always accompanies a look from Enjolras, the way his heart falters pathetically, skipping beats, and the shivers that race treacherously across his skin. He sits down beside Jehan, curling around him until they are a confusing knot of limbs. Musichetta reaches over to run a hand through his curls, absently scratching her nails along his scalp in a way that almost has him purring. He cracks an eye open to see Enjolras watching him, and promptly closes it again, burrowing further into Jehan's jumper.

 

"Right, bitches. Can't keep my Khaleesi waiting any longer." Bahorel shoves his way toward the TV and fiddles with Cosette's laptop for a while before hushing the room. His grin when the opening credits begin is just this side of terrifying. 

 

"Dun dun dundundun dun dundundun dun dundundun dun…"

 

" _COURFEYRAC_ "

 

Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out from where he's lounging between Eponine's legs, fiddling with the fraying edges of her ratty Ugg boots. She pats him on the head placatingly and smiles as Gavroche sprawls across Courfeyrac's outstretched legs.

 

The night passes with the usual hysterics - loud sobbing, shoes being thrown, several shouting matches defending the honour of favourite characters, at least six people wailing inconsolably as the screen blacks out.

 

"IT CAN'T FINISH THERE! WHYYYYYYY? WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS TO ME?"

 

"Courf, you twat, you've read the books!"

 

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND MY PAIN!"

 

 

 

They end up imploring Combeferre to let them stay the night. No point in asking Enjolras, as A) _'he's not the boss of us'_ , and B) he'd say no.

 

Mostly it's Courfeyrac dramatically claiming that they're all far too emotionally unstable after the episode to possibly go home. The others just roll with it.

 

Thankfully, they're easily pleased, not at all hard to take care of. Most just curl up where they'd been sitting, a jigsaw puzzle of bodies fitting together as naturally as breathing. Combeferre throws a few blankets about, smiling fondly at Grantaire and Jehan nestled together on the couch, with Musichetta wrapped around them; at Cosette and Eponine who are huddled in the armchair, tucked up in an old duvet; at Bahorel and Feuilly who are sprawled across the floor, Feuilly's hand clenched subconsciously in Bahorel's shirt; at Gavroche who has somehow commandeered the majority of the pillows and is nestled against the couch.

Bossuet had taken Joly to Combeferre's bed a while ago, when Marius had started sniffling.

 

Enjolras reappears then, in the process of brushing his teeth, and silently thanks Combeferre with a squeeze to his shoulder. He surveys the room and smiles a little around the toothbrush, unable to deny how endearing they all look. Combeferre disappears into Enjolras' room to steal some pyjamas, not wanting to wake those in his own room. He reappears in the doorway, poised to ask whether or not he's allowed to steal the Batman boxers, but silences himself upon seeing where Enjolras' soft gaze is directed. 

 

He doesn't even bother trying to suppress his smile, makes a mental note to talk to Enjolras later, and hopes that Grantaire is comfortable as well as completely precious. He's still beaming, and shaking his head, as he retreats into the bathroom.

 

Later, when they're curled up in bed, and he can feel Enjolras lying awake, breathing softly beside him, he thinks that maybe they won't have to wait much longer after all.

 

He's wrong, of course.

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

Combeferre rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he walks to class. He tilts his face up to feel the early morning sunshine. It's been raining all week, so the clear skies are a gift. The air is warm for september and the leaves are only just curling on the trees, the first few falling golden to the pavement. It's just gone eight o'clock, and he can feel the coffee starting to work it's way through his system. There's a slight bounce in his step as he wonders what they'll be covering in his contemporary history lecture.

 

He's a dual-program student, a Law and History curriculum that runs between both the Paris-Sorbonne and the Panthéon-Assas universities. It's a work-load and a half, and would probably kill a lesser man, but Combeferre has never once fallen behind or struggled too mightily with the content. Then again, he's pretty much a genius.

And on top of that, he's taking complementary courses in political science (mostly to keep up with Enjolras) and Philosophy of Law. As you do.

 

He's always enjoyed learning, forever the polymath, and has a fierce passion for education. To challenge himself, he tries to keep up with his friends' studies, doing reading on the side so he can discuss art history with Grantaire and Feuilly, literature with Jehan, ancient anthropology with Bossuet. He's well read in medical textbooks, and is almost as useful as Joly in a crisis. He can even hold his own in a conversation with Cosette about forensics and chemistry, something nobody else in the group can claim as she's the insanely brilliant mind that nobody expected.

 

Combeferre has never been one to garner attention. That was always Enjolras. Ever since they were kids, they've had the same dynamic. Like a slightly skewed version of brains and brawn - more like brains and slightly-more-zealous-brains. He's content to stand to the side and feel pride swell in his chest as his friend weaves passionate orations that set people's eyes aglow. He's happy knowing that he was the one to refine the arguments, to fill the holes and hack off all the unnecessary rhetoric that Enjolras is so fond of. Knowing that he's crucial to the message they're sending - that's more than enough.

 

He's never had the blazing passion that Enjolras seems to exude from his very pores, has never been overtly charismatic or radiant or fierce. He's a law student, and he can speak as cleverly as any politician, can bring a room to tears with his purposeful words, knows all the tricks of speech-making, but he's not a beacon or an idol, and so saves his more sombre addresses for dingy cafes and meetings at the Musain. At least, he thinks fondly, he isn't prone to overly-eloquent drunken effusions like Grantaire. Or 'boozy rants', as Bossuet had once called them.

 

He pushes his fringe out of his eyes as he climbs the stairs towards his lecture, and resettles his glasses on his nose - the glasses that are decidedly more 'hipster' than anything he'd get for himself, that Courfeyrac had bought for him so he could perfect his look of 'nerd-chic'. He sure has Combeferre's best interests at heart.

 

He shoots off a text to Enjolras as he enters the lecture theatre.

 

**Contact - Enjolras [recent messages]**

_Sent 8:13 am:_

_Morning. Sorry for leaving you to deal with the rabble. I'll help clean up when I get home. There's freshly brewed coffee._

 

_Received 8:14 am:_

_Yeah, thanks. I adore having twelve house guests over for breakfast. Enjoy your lecture, see you later. Also Grantaire drank all the coffee._

 

Combeferre chuckles before putting his phone on silent and tossing it into his bag. A year ago, Enjolras' wouldn't have been nearly as forgiving if someone stole his coffee. 'Someone' being R, of course. No one else has ever dared to steal Enjolras' coffee. He smiles wryly and makes a mental note to ask Jehan how that 'TEAtervention' is going.

 

 

 

 

_ _ 

 

 

 

He has several messages waiting for him by the time the lecture lets out.

 

**Contact - Jehan [recent messages]**

_Received 9:24 am:_

_hey :) hope ur lecture was good! it's sunny so we're going 2 the park - COME FIND US!! xxx_

 

**Contact - Enjolras [recent messages]**

_Received 9:45 am:_

_Hey, they dragged me to the Luxembourg against my will. Near the Medici Fountain. See you soon._

 

**Contact - Courfeyrac [recent messages]**

_Received 10:14 am:_

_Oi hurry up and get here already, i miss ur pretty face. Also R and e are bitching so we need u to mediate in case it comes to blows ;) x_

 

**Contact - Grantaire [recent messages]**

_Received 10:22 am:_

_Enjy's being a princess. Also thanks for the coffee this morning sweet cheeks x_

 

**Contact - Courfeyrac [recent messages]**

_Received 10:22 am:_

_I LOVE ACCIDENTAL INNUENDOES!!! 'In case it comes to blows'! Ahahahahahhaha ;D ;D ;D_

 

He replies to Enjolras.

 

It takes him a little under ten minutes to reach the gardens, and his bag is only slightly heavy on his shoulder as he passes students sitting outside sidewalk cafes, women reading novellas at tiny, wrought-iron tables and old men smoking in the shade of restaurant awnings. The sun is out in full force by the time he spots them sprawled across the grass.

 

Joly's stretched out with his head pillowed in the dip of his boyfriend's torso, giggling every time he feel's Bossuet's stomach shake with laughter. Bahorel is sprawled out next to them, his t-shirt balled up under his head, biceps on display. Jehan and Feuilly are cloud gazing and sharing cigarettes, while Cosette plays with Grantaire's hair. R is propped up on his elbows, head resting on Cosette's knee, and he's smirking at Enjolras, who's trying to focus on whatever it is he's copying down into his notebook but ultimately failing, as he snaps back at Grantaire every time he makes a sarcastic quip.

 

"Hey, all I'm saying is that there's always going to be a socio-economic gap, I mean, slavery, peasantry, all throughout history the same thing. There's always going to be people in the shit. Unemployed, underpaid, working-class…"

 

"So you're saying that the existence of the lower class endorses the existence of the upper class? That's _bullshit_! It's not just an _accepted fact_ that there'll always be subsisters and privileged assholes. Financial equality is possible, if…"

 

"If what? Wealth redistribution _doesn't work._ No one's going to be ok with the government stealing their property, 'the state has no right to take away the product of my labours' or whatever. By which they mean, 'my ancestor's labours, because I haven't worked a fucking day in my life'. Don't forget that the rich create 'growth' and 'expand the economy'…"

 

"You know that's not true! You _know_! Jesus. How can you be so apathetic about this while you're struggling to make rent with two shitty minimum wage jobs?"

 

"Because it's not going to change! No one's going to listen to me whine about my sorrowful plight! They don't give a shit, Enj. They're too busy lounging around in a sea of blood diamonds and Fabergé eggs or whatever the fuck. Yeah it's all so unfair, but y'know who disagrees? The millionaires. The fuckers with all the money, that's who. And as they're the only one's capable of changing a goddamn thing, I'd say slim chance."

 

"It's fundamental inequality! If the financially disadvantaged would just.."

 

"Unite? Rise up? Overthrow the monarchy?" Grantaire's smirking now, his eyes shining with humour, looking thoroughly amused by himself.

 

Enjolras is seething. He only deflates when he sees Combeferre approaching. He looks so intensely grateful Combeferre wonders if he hasn't just rescued him from a prowling, psychotic hyena. Grantaire has that affect on people, it seems.

 

"FERRE!" Courfeyrac tackles him to the grass rather ungracefully.

 

"Jesus, watch the laptop, you maniac."

 

"How was the lecture?" Enjolras asks once Combeferre has dusted himself off and sat down.

 

"Pretty great. We're just getting into the Second Industrial Revolution and the Bessemer process which is actually fascinating because…"

 

"Yeah, yeah, ok. You can tell us all about your hard-on for industrialised manufacturing over dinner. Cosette and 'Chetta are cooking for us all. A brave endeavour, if I say so myself."

 

"Indeed." Cosette rolls her eyes at him. "Please say you can all come! It's going to be delicious. And you can drink all of Courf's booze as revenge for whatever it is I'm sure he's done to piss you off this week. And if that's not incentive enough…"

 

"I'll be there!" Bahorel yells, and Bossuet laughs loudly, which sets Joly off.

 

Enjolras glances over to where Grantaire is now smoking one of Feuilly's cigarettes. This is all part of their routine. They hardly ever leave an argument unresolved - one of them will offer a nod or a smile or a shrug, some little gesture to serve as a peace offering. Grantaire will count it as a win, having riled the blonde up, and Enjolras will privately revise his arguments, Grantaire's brutal criticism forcing him to reevaluate some of his more ideological standpoints. Nothing is ever verbalised, but somehow it works. 

 

Enjolras catches him staring, stormy grey eyes meeting his across the grass. He squirms a little under the gaze, but offers an infinitesimal nod. _There_ , he thinks. _Truce._

 

Grantaire's mouth slowly stretches into a lazy smirk, and he winks before turning back to Cosette and Courfeyrac.

 

 

 

They stay there, stretched out across the grass like drowsy kittens, until the light turns pink and the bruised purples of dusk start creeping into the skyline.

 

Courfeyrac is giving Enjolras a shoulder massage, regaling him with a story about a waitress and an umbrella that the blonde doesn't seem remotely interested in. Eponine, conversely, is cackling and clutching at her sides. Bahorel is wearing a shirt again now that the sun's disappeared and the shadows have begun reclaiming ground.

 

Combeferre fiddles with his glasses - he's grown a little fond of them, if he's honest - and smiles at his friends all draped across each other, like the astoundingly co-dependent amalgamation that they are.

 

 

 

They pack up before the sun can begin setting in earnest, and wind their way back through the university district toward Courfeyrac and Marius' apartment.

 

Musichetta is waiting on the steps to their building when they reach it, and she flashes them a grin.

 

"Hey chicas. You hungry?"

 

Courfeyrac unlocks the door to a loud chorus of yeses.

 

"Shit, I'm hungry enough to eat tofu and enjoy it!" Grantaire exclaims dramatically as he disappears inside.

 

Combeferre chuckles at the venomous look Enjolras shoots at his retreating back.

 

"Come on, let's get some real food into you," he says.

 

And he's laughing as he pushes Enjolras through the door.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An academic - Combeferre  
> A vigilante - Enjolras (well… not quite yet)  
> A flirt - Courfeyrac  
> A poet - Prouvaire  
> A cynic - Grantaire  
> An artist - Feuilly  
> A bruiser - Bahorel  
> A dark horse - Eponine  
> A med-student - Joly  
> A klutz - Bossuet  
> A gypsy - Musichetta (yes, as in she is actually Romani and her family are amazing nomadic Spanish-descendent wanderers)  
> A puppy - Marius Pontmercy (full name required always)  
> A feminist brainiac - Cosette  
> and a young delinquent - Gavroche
> 
> 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness' is taken from Keats' 'To Autumn'
> 
> *~~ **Disclaimer** ~~* yo so basically pls remember that I know nothing of politics or of anything much at all ever so don't take anything written here too seriously, or seriously at all xoxoxo


	2. Lítost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan pines, Enjolras is confused, there is unrealised jealousy, a protest and a sing-along toward the end there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lítost  
>  _[czech.]_ near untranslatable; a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (also seriously, go listen to Say It, Just Say It and imagine these idiots dancing around the living room and laughing and shouting - your life will be better for it, trust me)

September is being particularly kind this year, Jehan thinks. It's a Friday, he doesn't have any classes, and he's blissfully content wandering through the city with the warm breeze brushing the hair from his face and the sun no doubt painting some more freckles across his nose. He's wearing a baggy old t-shirt that Grantaire has painted all over, and that all of his friends have scribbled on in sharpie at least once. Enjolras' message reads, in his elegant cursive script near the neckline, ' _it is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves - w.s_ '.

Grantaire had also scribbled a quote, less legibly, across the material that rests above his heart: 

' _I was born to catch dragons in their dens,_  
 _And pick flowers_  
 _To tell tales and laugh away the morning_  
 _To drift and dream like a lazy stream_  
 _And walk barefoot across sunshine days._ '

 

The Seine is flowing lazily, and Jehan watches the couples perched on the embankments, trading kisses and sharing private smiles. He fills another page of his notebook watching the lovers from the Pont des Arts. He never feels lonely in Paris, full as it is with people. The young couples that grin giddily at you as you pass, the locals that tilt their head in greeting, a gesture between old friends, though you've never met. Thousands of people, from perfect strangers, to tourists, to the old man who sits beneath the south rose window of Notre Dame every morning.

He can feel himself beginning to burn a little in the sun, and decides to head for the Musain, though it's early. He makes for the metro, puts on his 'songs for the train' playlist and settles in as he's whisked toward Montmartre.

When he reaches the cafe the clouds are starting to converge over the city, and he's glad he'd enjoyed the sun while it lasted. The doors are stopped open, letting the warm breeze drift into the entrance.

"Darling" Musichetta smiles at him from behind the counter, "how's your day been?"

He leans against the bar and rests his chin in his hands.

"Oh, fine. Just wandered around. Been busy?"

She laughs, and it's a lovely sound. "Yeah, quite. Mostly tourists, but the sunshine has enticed a few more outside and straight through my doors"

Jehan's about to reply when he hears the piano being played softly. He raises his eyebrows at Musichetta, it hardly ever gets touched during the day.

"Courfeyrac" she grins. "He's boosting my patronage."

Jehan smiles fondly.

"I'll just…"

"Of course" she gives him one last knowing smile, then returns to the coffee machine.

Jehan wanders around the bar and toward the music. The cafe is mostly empty by now, the lunch rush having subsided, and it's dim back here, the natural light from the windows not quite reaching this far back. He can make out Courfeyrac at the piano, lost in his music, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Jehan watches him from a safe distance, stomach fluttering a little as he spies. Courfeyrac is playing something faintly familiar, sweet and melancholy, in one of those pretty minor keys that Jehan adores. He sighs and settles in against the curve of the bar, mostly hidden in the shadowy corner where it connects with the wall.

   
It's been three years, _three years_ , and his feelings haven't subsided even slightly. He still feels giddy when they spend time alone together, still becomes a little less coherent when they talk, still cries in Grantaire's arms when Courfeyrac takes someone else home. They all tease Grantaire for his crush on Enjolras, in good humour, of course (and though they all know it's infinitely more than a crush). Yet here he is, having it just as bad for just as close a friend ( _because as much as they'll deny it, Grantaire and Enjolras are better friends than they realise, or wish to acknowledge…_ ) and he'll never feel the same. The whole thing's ridiculous, but knowing that doesn't make him any less in love. And he is. He's so hopelessly in love, hasn't so much as looked at another person for three years. _Three years_. Jesus Christ.

  
Courfeyrac transitions smoothly into another song, and he starts singing. Jehan's stomach flips completely when he recognises what it is. _Dear Prudence._ Fuck. It's one of his favourite songs, and Courfeyrac knows that. He _has_ to know that. He feels like screaming, or crying, or letting Eponine get him completely shit-faced. He almost goes for the former when he spots a girl approaching the piano. She's blonde and gorgeous, _of course she is_ , and she walks toward Courfeyrac with a confident stride that Jehan instantly detests. He watches as she leans over Courfeyrac's shoulder, her long hair falling across his back. He feels sick as he watches her place a hand on his shoulder, _too close to his neck, much too close_ , and watches still as Courfeyrac turns toward her and whispers something, fingers still moving deftly across the keys, playing out the melody that Jehan has been listening to since he was eight years old. The song ends, and Jehan remains motionless, sees her shoulders shake as she laughs, flicking her hair back, and he can just imagine her batting her fucking eyelashes. He feels disgustingly masochistic as he watches Courfeyrac take her phone and type something into it, and they're still too close, they must be sharing the same air, and it's so intimate that Jehan feels nauseous. The girl takes back her phone, whispers one more thing into Courfeyrac's ear, which makes him laugh, _I could make him laugh like that_ , and then she's gone, sauntering through the doors and out into the street.

  
He can't move, and he can feel Musichetta's eyes on him (she misses nothing) and he needs Grantaire, or Combeferre, or someone, _anyone_. And then Courfeyrac turns round on the piano stool and sees him.

  
Fuck.

  
Without missing a beat, _of course not - why would he? He just exchanged numbers with a leggy Parisian beauty, nothing out of the ordinary,_ he grins widely and makes his way over. Jehan's palms are sweaty and he wants to flee. He feels like he's preparing himself for a confrontation, which is stupid because they're friends. Courfeyrac is his _friend_. As if he needs reminding.

  
"Hey you" Courfeyrac says, and then there are arms around him and damn if this isn't the best and worst thing that could possibly be happening. He wants to reject the contact, he feels off-kilter and shaky, but he also wants nothing more than to cling to him and never let go. Courfeyrac is warm under his hands, and he clenches his fingers in the fabric of his button-down before he can stop himself.

  
"Hey" the word comes out raspy and he feels breathless and angry and _why is he still touching me, does he not have any idea?_  
  


Courfeyrac releases him. His whole body aches.

  
"You're early, the others won't be here for about another halfer."

  
"Yeah, um," he clears his throat, "I had nothing better to do, I guess."

  
"Enjoy the show?"

 _  
No_ , he thinks viciously.

  
"Of course. Brilliant, as always." _Why did you play that song, you asshole._

  
"Oh, stop it. You wouldn't want to inflate my ego anymore, would you?" he winks and Jehan has a bizarre urge to punch him in the face. Jesus, he's turning into Grantaire.

  
He laughs weakly and desperately wishes for something to do with his hands.

  
Musichetta jumps in then, she knows when a guy needs saving.

  
"Alright boys, who wants a drink?" her grin is a little more forceful than usual, and her eyes convey five thousand things in one look and Jehan just wants to crawl over the bar and into her arms. But the tension from before is gone, at least, so he just sighs and orders some tea and doggedly avoids meeting Courfeyrac's eye. 

 

 

***

 

 

Enjolras is running late. His Foreign Policies seminar had run overtime and he'd sprinted to the underground, but the train had been pulling away just as he'd reached the platform. He'd had to wait ten minutes for the next one, and so he isn't in the most charming of moods as he walks briskly from the station toward the cafe. It's still warm out, but the clouds overhead have decided that now is a great time to start raining.

  
Musichetta meets him at the door holding a towel, and he growls as she rubs down his hair.

  
"Sorry, Chief. Can't have you dripping all over my beautiful, clean floors!"

  
He matches her grin with an eye roll and is already speaking before he reaches his friends.

  
"Right, so we have just under a week to get organised and I'd like to spend this afternoon focusing on getting the message out - we want to have a good show after last time."

  
Combeferre gets up to let him into his usual seat.

  
"We've already got just under 200 attending on the Facebook page" he tilts his laptop so Enjolras can see.

  
"That's good, but we can do better. We need to do better. This is an important issue.."

  
"Aren't they all?" Grantaire mutters. Loudly. He has a wry smile on his face, _self-satisfied little shit_.

  
" _Yes_ , Grantaire. They _are._ If you took the time to give a damn about anything more than who's getting the next round, you might recognise that."

  
Grantaire just winks at him, and Enjolras closes his eyes, breathing deeply, before continuing.

  
"There are a lot of people that would be sure to come if they were better informed. We just haven't generated enough press, unfortunately. So I want everyone working to ensure a good turnout from the universities, they're our main target."

  
"I've got the LGBTQ Society at UPMC helping out. They're handing out flyers and doing a little in-school canvassing," Cosette offers from where she's lying across Grantaire's lap.

  
"Great. Joly? Could you maybe stir something up at Descartes? Courf's already working on getting the CAELIF involved, and Feuilly's still up for informing the arts kids at Parsons, yes?"

  
Feuilly nods and Grantaire scoffs.

  
"Right. Because I couldn't be helping out with that, could I? It's not as if I'm also enrolled there…"

  
"No, I wouldn't expect your assistance."

  
Grantaire barks out a sarcastic laugh.

  
"'Course not"

  
Feuilly clears his throat, "actually, R's been going round to all…"

  
"Nah, it's fine mate. Don't bother. No point." Grantaire's smile is a little bitter as he downs the rest of his beer and sets it on the table with a _thunk._ "Now how about that next round?"  
  
His eyes flash in challenge, and the falsity in his smile has it twisted into an almost ugly grimace

  
Enjolras frowns, puzzled. But he'd given up on trying to fathom out Grantaire a long time ago, so he simply presses on.

  
"Right," he clears his throat, "so… where was I? Ah, yes, Eponine. I've got Eponine updating the website and sending out information to some of the local papers, so hopefully we'll have a few stories running by Monday. Apart from that, just keep up the word-of-mouth and I'm sure we'll get a good turnout."  
  
  
He turns to Combeferre then, still a little off-centre after what Grantaire had said, _don't bother, no point,_ and goes to ask him about permits to distract himself, but Bossuet interrupts before he can open his mouth.

  
"Pretty sure Jehan did some brilliant promoting for us down our end of school…" he says with a wide grin.

  
Jehan laughs, "yeah, well, it wasn't too hard. Humanities students are pretty liberal."

  
"Oh, shut up. He got half the literature department to promise attendance, is what he did."

  
Enjolras raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed, and turns to Jehan.

  
"It was nothing, really. I just asked my American Lit professor if I could have a few minutes at the end of his lecture to speak. So that was to about three hundred students… But yeah, they all seemed pretty enthusiastic and I've had heaps of people come up to ask for more information since…"

  
"Fucking brilliant," Bahorel grins and leans over Eponine to clap Jehan on the back.

  
"Jehan, thank you. That's great news. I really appreciate it." Enjolras gives him a small smile, which is the Enjolrasian equivalent to ten minutes of praise.

  
Jehan just shrugs and smiles as Grantaire pulls him into a one-armed hug.

  
He looks up to see Courfeyrac beaming at him from across the table, and his heart skips several beats. He dips his head when he feels his cheeks begin to colour. _Damn you, damn you, damn you._

  
Grantaire's hand tightens slightly around his shoulder, and Jehan sags a little more into his side. 

 

 

***

 

 

They're at the Musain until Musichetta starts closing up. Grantaire helps her pack down the bar with the efficiency of someone who's worked a long time in hospitality.

  
"So what's the goss, handsome?" she asks as Grantaire caps the Bombay and sets it back on the shelf.

  
"Hmm, nothing too exciting. Jehan's been emailing this guy about a possible publication contract, so that's cool. Feuilly and I are actually making some progress on our final submissions, thank fuck. Haven't got laid in a good six weeks, but that's becoming a trend, so great."

  
"With a face like that, you shouldn't be having too much trouble" she laughs and pinches his ass as he starts wiping down the bar.

  
"Well, if you're offering, how about we get out of here?" he winks at her and she grins at him over her shoulder.

  
"Tempting, but my boys would never forgive me."

  
"Never forgive you for what?" Joly calls out from the far end of the bar, Bossuet at his side.

  
"Oh, R here has just offered to take me home and show me what I've been missing out on."

  
"I could rock your world, baby. Show you a _real_ good time."

  
"Hey, check yourself, pretty boy." Bossuet flicks a straw at Grantaire, who ducks, laughing.

  
"Hola muchachos, hurry your fine asses up, we're going out!" 

  
Courfeyrac shrugs on his jacket and leans against the bar, hip cocked, the usual lop-sided grin on his face.

  
"Courf, you're not a fucking Mexican drug lord, hard as you try."

  
"Screw you, ese. I'll be whoever I want."

  
"Mmm. I'll be whatever you want me to be, baby." Combeferre appears at his side, his voice dry with playful sarcasm.

  
"Why, Combeferre, how forward of you." Courfeyrac leans up and licks his cheek, too quickly for Combeferre to react.

  
"Fuck, gross. I hate you." Combeferre shakes his head and wipes his face with the back of his hand, but he's smiling.

  
"Only you, Courf. Who the fuck licks people's faces." Grantaire says, no question in the statement. Because Courfeyrac would, that's exactly who.

  
"You guys love me."

  
His grin is even wider now, and a smile that large would look bizarre on anyone else's face.

  
"No but, for reals. Hurry up. I want to party."

  
"Yes. Let's get this over with." And that's Enjolras, pulling on his own jacket. He raises one eyebrow at his friends, as if to say _you're the ones dragging me along to this, so could you kindly speed the fuck up, I have work to do._

  
And then he's out the door, the rest of them on his heels, as usual. 

 

 

 

They end up at a club, despite Enjolras' vehement protests, one that Courfeyrac apparently frequents, as they get in with no trouble though their male to female ratio is worryingly lopsided.

  
It's packed and loud and hazy and Enjolras hates it immediately. He makes a beeline for the far end of the bar, the only place he can see that's relatively empty. Combeferre follows him and they install themselves in their corner, ordering some pretentious sounding hipster ale that seems to be all they sell besides cocktails and spirits.

   
Courfeyrac makes his own beeline for the dance floor, the rest of them ordering drinks further up the bar. Enjolras watches Grantaire reach over the bar and pour himself an additional finger of whiskey, winking at the bartender, and he finds himself wondering how often Grantaire comes here, if that's commonplace enough for the employees to not bat an eyelid. His stomach does an unpleasant turn when the bartender, some 'tall, dark and handsome' guy with tattoo sleeves who Enjolras instinctively despises, leans over to whisper something in Grantaire's ear, making him grin and offer another wink. Enjolras takes a long swig of his beer and turns back to the crowd, avoiding Combeferre's questioning eyes.

  
Enjolras spots Jehan in the crowd, his sandy shoulder-length hair damp with sweat, and being pulled back from his face by some unknown hulk of a guy. Enjolras feels distinctively uneasy as the guy grabs Jehan's hips and grinds against him possessively. Thankfully, it seems Courfeyrac is just as uncomfortable with this display, as he shoulders his way through the pressing crowd to where Jehan is. Enjolras sees him tap the guy on the shoulder and glare at him coldly, shouting something above the pounding music. He misses the way Jehan's face lights up with delighted surprise, but not the way the stranger shoots Courfeyrac a dangerous look before disappearing back into the throng of people.

  
Courfeyrac hooks a possessive arm around Jehan's waist and even from afar he looks a little lost, as though he hadn't planned this far ahead. But then Jehan smiles at him, and he seems to make up his mind about something before pulling the other boy close and starting to dance with him obscenely enough that Enjolras has to look away. 

  
Unfortunately, looking away from them only causes his eyes to catch on a familiar head of unruly hair in the crowd. The uneasiness that he'd felt seeing Jehan dance with a stranger is nothing compared to the nauseated feeling in his stomach now. Grantaire is moulded against the front of another unknown, whose features are inconsequential to Enjolras as he watches Grantaire mouth at their neck, and sees hands sliding down over his ass. He fights the insane urge to stalk across the crowded room and knock the guy out, but he's unable to look away. The unpleasant feeling coiling in his belly only worsens as Grantaire's fingers lose themselves in the stranger's hair, and his eyes follow _without his permission_ the pair of hips as they grind together indecently. There's no reason for him to feel put out. Grantaire can dance with whoever the fuck he likes, it's not Enjolras' concern. Except it _feels_ like it is.

  
Combeferre tries to gently coax Enjolras out of sullenness for the rest of the night, but he's not very successful.

  
It's when he sees Grantaire getting ready to leave that things get really confusing. The guy's hand is clamped around Grantaire's hip, and they're laughing together as they make their way to the door, and they're so close, and there's absolutely no reason for Enjolras' hands to be twitching the way they are. He's halfway across the room before he's even realised that he's moved.

  
"Where are you going?" and it comes out as an accusation. His words usually do, when directed at Grantaire. And that realisation hits him like a slap to the face. 

  
Grantaire just stares at him, incredulous.

  
"Um" his expression is a mix of confused and extremely pissed off. "Home?"

  
"With _him?_ " the words are out of his mouth before he's even thought them.

  
"Yes, with _him_. What the fuck, Enjolras? Since when do you have a say in who I do or don't take home?"

  
And, yeah, ok, fair enough.

  
Grantaire is still looking at him, eyebrows raised, as if in challenge, though Enjolras has no clue what the challenge is, exactly.

  
"Right, well. If you don't mind?" Grantaire asks, sweeping an arm toward the door, as if to announce his departure.

  
Enjolras just returns his stare dumbly, thoroughly confused by the entire proceeding, and he doesn't move until Grantaire and his… guy have disappeared out the door.

  
Jesus. He must be more sleep deprived than he'd thought.

  
He finds Combeferre chatting to a pretty redhead by the bar, let's him know that he's going home, and shoulders his way back through the crowd.

  
He walks the entire way home, though it's pissing down rain and his jacket is a poor excuse for protection.

 

  

***

 

 

The next week is full of preparation for the protest, a city-wide stand against Russia's anti-gay legislation. Combeferre had been wrestling with permits all month, but they were finally cleared. And if all their promoting at the universities is anything to go by, the turnout should be impressive.

   
The morning of the march is miserable. It's grey and cold and drizzling consistently.

  
Grantaire whines the whole way through breakfast and Jehan is _this_ close to taking a frying pan to his head when there's a knock on the door.  
  
  
Grantaire slouches over to answer it, despite being dressed only in his ratty boxers. The strangled squeak he lets out when he swings the door open is definitely dignified and extremely manly.

  
Enjolras stands on the threshold, damp with rain, and only more glorious for it. He's dressed in his black coat, the one that does things to Grantaire. Really. The way his hair curls against the collar and his eyes stand out shockingly blue against the black material. Jesus, fuck.

  
"Morning" Enjolras greets him, his expression a tiny bit hesitant, which, ok, _that's new_. And Grantaire studiously ignores the way Enjolras eyes sweep over his body, which, he realises a little too late, is mostly naked. Turning to hide his flaming cheeks, he calls out to Jehan.

  
"Enjolras! Hi!" Jehan hugs Enjolras tightly once he's appeared, "this one's been giving me all sorts of trouble this morning" he smacks Grantaire lightly in the chest, "but we're almost ready to go."

  
"You're coming?" he asks Grantaire, sounding genuinely surprised.

  
"Of course I'm coming, you idiot. When have I missed a chance to see you in all your glory?" Grantaire winks at him, faking bravado. 

  
He glances down at himself before shooting Enjolras a crooked grin, "just let me put some pants on."

 

 

They make it to the designated meeting point by 8:30, and Grantaire is being _so good_. He's only glanced across at Enjolras four or five times in the last ten minutes. Surely that's a new record.

  
He almost jolts right out of his body, however, when Enjolras' hand clenches painfully around his forearm.

  
" _Look_ " he breathes, and even his voice is electrifying.

  
Grantaire tears his eyes away from the hand grasping at his arm, the skin there feeling as though it's searing, and follows Enjolras' gaze.

  
The crowd is _ginormous._ Even Grantaire, stubborn, defeatist Grantaire, feels something stir in his chest at the sight of it.

  
The pressure on his arm only increases the closer they get, and Grantaire is sure that his heart is never going to beat steady again.

  
Two girls with intertwined hands and matching _Putin go homo_ t-shirts smile at him as they pass, and they both shoot him these knowing looks that seem to say 'Wow, man. Nice work.' He's thoroughly perplexed until he feels fingers flex around his arm, and oh. _Oh._ He twists his head back to explain, or shake his head, to somehow correct their assumption, but they've vanished into the crowd.

  
"Why are you so red? Are you cold?" and Grantaire's not sure if he's more surprised by Enjolras' concern, or the fact that Enjolras is able to notice anything other than the crowd milling around them. ' _The people have risen_ ' Grantaire thinks wryly. He's always enjoyed twisting Enjolras' purposeful words with his own personal brand of cynicism.

  
"I'm fine. It's nothing."

  
Enjolras nods, and let's go of his arm. The loss of contact makes Grantaire's head spin unpleasantly. Without even realising it, and before he can stop himself, he's reaching back out to grasp at Enjolras' hand, and _shit. What are you doing?_ Fuck. He's been so careful lately, he's been so good about all this, kept his distance, limited his gawking. But now Enjolras has stopped walking and is looking between Grantaire's hand and his face and Grantaire hears his breath hitch and he's being too obvious. He knows he is, but he can't really think straight with Enjolras looking at him like that. Like he's the only one there, though there are hundreds of people pressing around them.

  
And then Enjolras moves. He entwines their fingers and squeezes a little, and the pressure causes Grantaire's heart make another unhealthy leap.

  
"Come on, let's go find the others."

  
And then Grantaire's being dragged through the crowd. He goes willingly.

 

 

Cosette is brilliant. She's radiant. She's stealing the show. Grantaire is in awe.

  
She's stolen Enjolras' megaphone and is riding high above the crowd on Bahorel's shoulders. Her hair falls in golden waves down her back and her blue eyes are bright and glistening with unshed tears.

  
Enjolras had soared high above the crowd on those same shoulders just minutes before, borne above people's heads like the seraphic being that he is, shouting righteous indignations and furious extemporized speeches. His hair had been tousled by the wind, blonde curls flying about his face, which was coloured and ceasesly moving, the stream of words constant and the expression and feeling so intimate and personal that one couldn't help but be moved. He'd been returned to the ground once an hour had passed, however, when Bahorel deemed him too heavy. He'd proceeded to gape and protest when his friend had promptly hauled Cosette up onto his shoulders, spluttering like a stroppy child (which Grantaire had found endlessly amusing), though he'd shut his mouth once she'd started speaking, picking up right where he'd left off. The two of them were shockingly alike: blonde hair, impassionaed blue eyes, stirring words.

  
"…and it's society that needs to change, not us! Harvey Fierstein said, ' _Never be bullied into silence.'_ And we won't. WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED!" The megaphone crackled as her voiced raised triumphantly, and the crowd roared.

  
"And there's one more quote, one by Ernest Gaines, and I direct this to every single anti-LGBTQ asshole out there," she took a deep breath, and her next words came out as a battle cry.

  
" _WHY IS IT THAT WE ARE MORE COMFORTABLE SEEING TWO MEN HOLDING GUNS THAN HOLDING HANDS?"_

  
She doesn't hold back the tears now. And the crowd is cheering wildly, a flurry of banners and vibrant colour. Grantaire feels a tear track down his cheek, and his heart is bursting with an immense pride that he doesn't quite know what to do with. He doesn't wipe the tear away, just grins up at his friend as she cheers atop Bahorel's shoulders. 

 

 

And astoundingly, the protest had remained peaceful. They'd had to hustle Cosette out rather swiftly after she'd started kissing Eponine aggressively in front of the police line, but no blood was shed. For once, none of them were nursing ice packs over their eyes or disinfecting cuts or assessing for broken bones. Grantaire is a little shocked. He's so used to being proven right, so used to being disappointed when he _is_ proven right when things get violent and messy and frightening, like he's seen too many times before. But he's not upset, how could he be with Enjolras smiling like that? With fucking glorious and ethereal righteousness exuding from his every pore. He's fucking ecstatic that he was wrong. Completely dumbfounded that the thing went off without a hitch, sure, _seriously when do these things ever go right?_ But with his friends basking in the glow of the victory, he absolutely cannot keep the smile off his face.

  
They've retreated back to Courfeyrac and Marius' apartment, flushed with adrenaline and triumph, and even Enjolras doesn't protest when a beer is pressed into his hand. It's all a little surreal. They've never staged such a successful protest. There'd always been tears, or black eyes, or bruised ribs, or rough police retaliation. But there's no use dwelling on failures when you've had such a great win, so instead they crowd themselves into the living room which probably shouldn't comfortably fit thirteen hyperactive university students, but somehow does. And there are tears that night, but only the best kind. 

  
None of them have any desire to leave, all far too emotional about the whole ordeal to be anywhere but together, and they construct a sort of haphazard group-bed out of pillows and duvets right there in the living room.

  
It's around ten o'clock that Courfeyrac's old guitar is forced upon Grantaire.

  
"Come on, give us a song." Cosette smiles up at him from the floor, and after her performance at the protest, he can deny her nothing.

  
He grumbles about it, but obligingly begins strumming absentmindedly as he decides on a song. Courfeyrac whispers ' _Mumford and Sons_ ' into his ear on his way past the couch, and that's that.

  
He starts off softly, aware of the semi-circle his friends have made around him, all resting on each other and watching attentively.

" _Love was kind, for a time  
Now just aches, and it makes me blind_ "

He glances across at Enjolras for a split second, before bowing his head again.

He gets through the first verse by himself, but shoots Eponine a quick look before the chorus, and she grins and begins a harmony. Musichetta is swaying where she's seated on the armchair, wrapped up in Feuilly's arms, and Jehan's fingers are tapping out a slow rhythm on the coffee table.

He physically restrains himself from looking to Enjolras again for the rest of the song. His voice is even softer now, and Eponine's quiet harmonies come in once more. And then they're all joining in, and jesus, he feels tears pricking at his eyes but he can't help it, and he looks up to see them all singing through watery smiles and can't deny the tug that it creates in his chest.

And they're louder now, grinning and swaying against each other. And it should be ridiculous, it really should, they're not on fucking Glee, but instead it just makes him feel really goddamn emotional. Assholes.

They all taper off to let him finish, barely more than a whisper.

" _Cuz I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow  
Take my hand, help me on my way_ "

Grantaire dips his head and grins when they all cheer and whoop, and Bahorel hurls a pillow to the floor, shouting " _ANOTHER!_ "

He catches Enjolras eye, and he has this small smile on his face and a fondness in his eyes that leaves Grantaire a little shellshocked, because he's sure he's never seen that look before. At least not directed at him. He looks back down into his lap, fingers playing idly over the strings. And Enjolras hasn't brought up the whole hand-holding incident, so Grantaire won't either.

 

Another hour passes and many more rounds of drinks, and then Eponine is declaring that the girls wish to sing a song.

  
It all escalates from there, the girls giving a raucous rendition of a song Marius had found on his adventures through Spotify - throughout which the rest of them are quite lost.

  
Courfeyrac takes control of the music selection then, and that's the beginning of the end.  
  


They all end up jumping around the living room like berserk go-go dancers (Cosette and Eponine), or just plain maniacs (Musichetta and Courfeyrac). Grantaire feels a tiny pang of sympathy for the people in the apartment below. Enjolras and Combeferre sit themselves on the couch, content to watch their friends flail around like certifiable nut-cases.

 

The last chorus of "Don't Stop Me Now" peters out and they all cheer, for what seems like the millionth time that day. Grantaire's throat aches from all the cheering.

 

But, predictably, his brain betrays him with a thought, and his grin slips for a split second.

 

_I wonder how long this'll last._

 

 


	3. Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is a stellar friend, Enjolras has an 'uncomfortable experience', and we find out what the most quotable movies of all time are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brontide  
>  _[eng.]_ the low rumbling of distant thunder.
> 
>  
> 
> Plot? What is plot?
> 
> Nah for reals, I promise it'll start getting plotty soon. Like, the plottiest plot you can imagine just you wait.

 

Monsieur Mabeuf is sixty-three years old.

 

He's rather short, with silver hair and a patchy beard that is bristly and yellowed by tobacco. He has a soft voice, but a raucous laugh, and often smiles at what seems like nothing at all.

 

He's one of Feuilly's dearest friends.

 

 

Feuilly has known Mabeuf since he was fourteen and still living in Gorbeau House, no money to his name and enough possessions to count on two hands.

 

\- three shirts

\- two pairs of pants

\- four pairs of boxers

\- one fraying coat

\- one scratchy woollen jumper

\- one pair of boots

\- one 7-inch Cole Porter vinyl

\- one worn postcard addressed to his mother

\- one battered copy of The Hobbit

\- one cigarette lighter, engraved with the initials, S.F

 

His father had been a jazz musician, his mother a singer. Their faces are blurry to him now, lost to the slow erasure of time. He doesn't remember the house they lived in, the clothes they wore, what they were like. He can recall none of those little things, those quirks and idiosyncrasies that make up a person. But he does remember two things, sharp and clear. Two lonely, untainted memories. The voice of his mother as she sung him a lullaby, _Au Claire De La Lune_ , and the sweet sound of his father humming Nina Simone on a muggy summer night.

 

And so, there's little else in the world Feuilly loves more than music.

 

 

 

He'd first met Mabeuf in 2006, in the winter. A Thursday evening, the wind like ice and the rain a ceaseless drizzle. He'd happened across the storefront down Rue Monsieur le Prince, the red piano accordion displayed lovingly in the window enticing him through the doors. He remembers the sound of the bell tinkling as he crossed the threshold.

 

 _Le Petite Trompette_. There had been a silver trumpet flaking off the sign above the door, but it'd since been painted over.

 

It was a dim shop, cramped and precarious, kept warm by the little radiator heater Mabeuf let run behind the counter. Mabeuf had looked a little younger, but the laugh lines and the crinkles round his eyes had been there even then. Feuilly remembers the warm smile he'd given him, the first person in years not to look him up and down as though doing an assessment, or to raise their eyebrows at his tattered clothes and sallow face.

 

Walking into that shop had felt like coming home. It was the first place in which Feuilly had ever felt truly cared for.

 

That first night, he never returned to the House. He and Mabeuf had talked over tea, bread and cheese well past midnight, and Feuilly had slept on the old man's couch in the flat above, a quilt stitched with a mother's care tucked tightly around him.

 

Mabeuf was the first person he'd ever talked to about his family, about his past. They'd informally adopted each other during those early years. Mabeuf was his father, for all intents and purposes, and he was the son the old man had always wanted but never had. It was a strange little attachment they created, but it worked.

 

 

 

Today, Feuilly's fingers are itching for something to play. Growing up in homes, he'd never owned an instrument, but he'd played anything he could get his hands on. From the broken, misplaced and rejected instruments that had sometimes passed through Gorbeau, to the guitars and violins of charitable street musicians. He's an art student, but he's no less a musician than an artist. He plays as well as he paints, his hands just as fit for strings and keys as they are for sculpting. Grantaire had always complained that the talent fairy had dumped an unfairly disproportionate amount of gifts onto him as a kid. Feuilly usually responded by flicking him with his brush, or his paint water, shaking his head at his friend's unwavering ability to sell himself short.

 

The bell rings just as it had seven years ago, when he pushes the door open. The familiar smell of rosin and maple and manuscript paper hangs heavy in the air.

 

"Ah, Feuilly" Mabeuf grins toothily at him and extracts himself from behind the counter and envelops him in a hug. "Was wondering when you'd be coming round. It's been a while. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten me."

 

Feuilly chuckles and flicks through some of the sheet music on the stand by the door, "as if that were possible."

 

"We missed you." Mabeuf waves a hand around at the clutter of instruments that he'd always had a habit of personifying.

 

"Is that right? Well, what have you got for me today?" Feuilly can't keep the smile off his face. Two weeks really has been too long.

 

"Oh, you'll love this. Last week I got in this old beauty, second-hand, dropped off by some upper crust fellow who had no appreciation for her at all, thought she was just some battered old piece of junk. Shameful, really." He leads them into the back room and rummages around for a minute before exclaiming victoriously and holding out a gorgeous dark maple violin for Feuilly to inspect. He then bustles back past and continues toward the keys. 

 

The size of the store limits the number of pianos able to fit, but they are Mabeuf's pride and joy, and there's always a steady rotation of buys and sells. Currently, there is the baby grand in the back corner, reserved for an overseas customer, two glossed ebony uprights, a dilapidated old thing that has never sold in all the years he's been coming here, and which Feuilly has always favoured for that very reason, and one new addition. A stunning, antique Wagner upright with a walnut finish and detailed panelling. It looks like a relic from a bygone era, like Gershwin himself belongs at those keys, or Duke Ellington, with Adelaide Hall crooning over his shoulder.

 

Feuilly lets out a rush of breath and crosses the room to run his hands reverently across the ivory.

 

He suspects that he's been rambling worshipful nonsense, because Mabeuf chuckles and turns back toward the front of the shop, calling "I'll just leave you two alone, then" over his shoulder.

 

He grins and pulls out the bench, cracking his fingers and wriggling some warmth into them before placing them back onto the keys. After that first note, the clear, sweet sound of it ringing through the store, the music just flows.

 

Mabeuf ventures back after an hour, a mug of tea in hand.

 

"Here, take a break before your fingers fall dead off."

 

Feuilly sighs, but accepts the drink. He knows he should be heading back to school to get some work done, but fuck it. Grantaire won't be getting shit done today, so why should he. He's quite content to spend the rest of the afternoon here, drinking tea and improvising melodies.

 

He raises a questioning eyebrow at the old man, and smiles cheekily.

 

"So how about that violin?"

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

Jehan wakes up on Friday morning to an impressively loud a-capella rendition of "Oops!… I Did It Again" that seems to be coming from the running shower. Which is strange, because Grantaire isn't known to perform Britney Spears songs. Well, not before midday, at least.

 

He groans and rolls over, burrowing into the pillows and trying to block out the surprisingly on-key vocal runs. Seriously, whoever it is, they're annoyingly good.

 

"Grantaireeeee" he moans, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen.

 

His roommate appears in the doorway a moment later, looking far too cheerful for 9:00 AM.

 

"Yes, dearest?"

 

"For the love of all that is good and holy, who is in our shower?"

 

"That would be Courfeyrac. Isn't he enthusiastic?"

 

Jehan bolts upright and shrieks a little, pulling the sheets up around his neck as though protecting his virtue.

 

" _Why is Courfeyrac in our shower?_ " 

 

Grantaire grins and flings himself onto the bed.

 

"Oh, something about Marius and Cosette and a 'special night in'. He crashed on the couch."

 

Jehan squeaks indignantly and flings a pillow at Grantaire's head.

 

"I hate you" he declares, before stomping dramatically out of the room, trying and failing to look menacing in his green-and-purple tie died boxers.

 

 

He's halfway through making his tea when Courfeyrac appears, towel slung low around his waist, and his hair dripping water down his torso.

 

"Heya handsome. Some for me?" he grins and saunters over, nudging Jehan with his elbow and raising his eyebrows in that infuriatingly suggestive Courfeyrac way.

 

"Uhhhg…" Jehan isn't particularly articulate when presented with shirtless Courfeyrac's.

 

Grantaire rescues him, waltzing into the kitchen, yawning widely and scratching the back of his head.

 

"Nuh-uh. For you, sir, _coffee_."

 

He presents Courfeyrac with one of his ridiculous novelty mugs, a huge gaudy thing with the words _Lady Liberty_ in elaborate italics curling around the rim, and a picture of a buxom blonde wearing a dress fashioned from a tricolour.

 

"A cure-all for unfortunate souls and outcasts who are forced to take refuge on too-short couches."

 

Jehan breathes a sigh of relief as Courfeyrac and his glistening abs move away from him.

 

"Oh, R. You have never been more beautiful to me than you are in this moment." He places a sloppy kiss on Grantaire's cheek and hoists himself up onto the counter, accepting the mug and holding it in his hands reverently.

 

"Anything for you, gorgeous."

 

Jehan, suddenly aware of his near nakedness, blushes furiously and attempts to hide himself by sitting at the table and sinking low into his seat. Grantaire shoots him an untoward look, which he ignores.

 

"So I've been hearing some very juicy gossip lately." Courfeyrac announces, looking incredibly pleased with himself. " _Apparently_ , and this is all very exciting for me, you know, but not really surprising, because, well, I'm _me_." He pauses to grin saucily over his coffee mug, so that they know he's joking. Mostly. "But apparently, someone is seriously craving the Courf. And by someone, I mean someone within our little posse, and yes Grantaire, we _are_ a posse. Do either of you happen to know anything about that?"

 

Thankfully Jehan has just finished swallowing, so that when he chokes, it's not around a mouthful of scalding tea.

 

Grantaire, right on cue, lets out a well-timed laugh, loud and convincing enough that Jehan feels a fierce pang of love for his oldest friend.

 

"Well, you caught me. No use denying it, really. It's me Courf. It's always been me."

 

Courfeyrac snorts. "Oh even _I'm_ not sexy enough to hold your affections, R. I'm not even remotely seditious or blonde enough."

 

Grantaire throws a dishtowel at his head.

 

"You know what? As you both insist on being so unhelpful, I'm afraid I'll have to bring out the big guns."

 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows and Jehan swallows nervously.

 

"It's time for a good ol' fashioned serenade."

 

Well, _shit_.

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

Grantaire strategically places himself between Jehan and the stage when they choose their seats at the cafe that night. He's prepared to go to any lengths to save Jehan from unnecessary embarrassment. But that's about all he can do, there's no talking Courfeyrac out of one of his grand ideas.

 

He still remembers the time Jehan took a punch for him back in high school, and the way he'd left the other guy with a broken nose and a limp. He remembers Jehan burrowing down under his covers and writing words in loops around his arms. He remembers the guitar Jehan had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. As well as the day his father had taken it out back and decimated it against a tree trunk because he'd had a headache and couldn't stand _that shit you call music._ He remembers all the times Jehan had offered him sanctuary at his aunt's house. Josephine had been their unwavering support system back then. Grantaire suddenly feels an immense surge of gratitude for the woman, and wonders why they've left it so long between visits.

 

Josephine had always been a youthful lady. Somewhere in her mid 40's, with the most beautiful laugh lines and a brilliant smile. She was constantly adorned with beads - necklaces, bracelets, anklets - and she wore her long corkscrew curls in a messy bun. Her door had always been open to them when they were in school. Unsurprisingly, he and Jehan had spent more time there than they did at their own homes. Jehan's parents weren't unkind, necessarily. Just neglectful. His older sister had escaped to Lyon the day she'd turned eighteen. Grantaire hardly remembered her. He doesn't know much beyond the fact that they're no longer in contact.

 

Jehan, as a child, used to disappear for days on end, and it never gained a reaction from his parents. He was just a kid desperate for attention in those days. A lonely kid with parents who rarely cooked him dinner, were too busy to drop him to school, never called or left a note when they went away - the money left atop the fridge the only sign that they'd been there at all. Jehan had spent his early years as a ghost of a child. Self-sufficient, uncared for. He'd cooked his own meals every day since he was nine years old. His parents had never wanted kids, a fact which was painfully clear to their son.

 

They'd never tucked him into bed at night - that had been Grantaire. They'd never taken him anywhere nice, he'd never been on a picnic or to a fair or on a family holiday. All of those things had been Grantaire. He'd spend christmases with Grantaire at Josephine's house. With Eponine too, in the later years. That crooked little house in one of the rougher outer-Parisian suburbs- her warm, sunny kitchen and the rickety double bed in the spare room, that was home.

 

Grantaire has always felt a strange sense of gratitude that his own parents were a different kind of neglectful. Sure, the acknowledgement he'd received had always been harsh and callous, but it _was_ acknowledgment. His father had screamed at him for lack of anything better to do. He'd never had a job or an income. He spent the majority of his days in front of their crappy TV. Grantaire's mother was abrasive and cruel. She was rarely seen without a drink, and had a horrible case of emphysema which made her sound like some kind of rasping witch straight out of a kid's nightmare. She yelled constantly. At Grantaire, at her husband, at the neighbours, at the neighbour's cats. She'd thrown Grantaire around a bit when he was smaller, and when he was old enough to defend himself, she had settled for verbal blows that had slowly chipped away at Grantaire's self-worth until somewhere in the back of his brain, he began to believe her. _Worthless, lazy, ugly, not worth the food your eating._

 

Jehan and Josephine had salvaged a certain amount of his self-esteem, but his mother's voice had the tendency to creep back in at the most inopportune times.

 

It's interesting, Grantaire muses, that though their childhoods had been a shit storm of epic proportions, he's never once wished that it had been different. If it had been different, he'd never have spent every new year's eve since he was fifteen with Jehan and Eponine in the dilapidated playground that was the highest point of their crappy suburb. You could just see the skyline of Paris through the trees if you climbed up onto the roof of the kiddie castle. They'd never have spent weekends hitching rides into the city with a bottle of bourbon hoisted from the Thenardier's liquor stash, or snagged out-of-date chips and chocolate from the old guy at the milk bar, who'd always had a soft spot for the trio, and feasted with flashlights beneath Jehan's bedsheets.

 

They say you don't choose your family, but Grantaire has never subscribed to that belief. He has a family, and it isn't his shitty mother or his lazy, apathetic father. Jehan's isn't his negligent parents. Eponine's isn't her insane mum and dad with their never ending list of shady business schemes, or the ceaseless flow of unfortunate foster kids that floated through her house. It's each other. They chose their own family. It's served them well this far, and Grantaire doesn't doubt that they'll see each other through till the bitter end.

 

 

Courfeyrac takes to the stage and flashes his friends a winning smile.

 

"Good evening, darlings! And what a good turnout we have this evening!"

 

Bahorel groans and throws a peanut toward the stage.

 

"Hurry the fuck up. I have better things to do than listen to you sing shitty love songs."

 

"Shitty? Au contraire, my friend! Tonight my secret admirer will be revealed! Now you're all extremely attractive, which should probably be a statistical impossibility, but hey - I'm not complaining." He grins again, catlike and mischievous, "so whomever it is, we're going to have some really fucking amazing sex!"

 

Grantaire reaches back and finds Jehan's hand under the table.

 

Eponine and Cosette jump up onto the stage at Courfeyrac's signal, both in retro 50's dresses and bold red lipstick.

 

"Feuilly, if you please." Courfeyrac clears his throat and cracks his neck, and the girls take up their position behind microphone no. 2.

 

Feuilly, waiting by the karaoke machine, hits play on the track and returns to his seat.

 

Grantaire hears Combeferre chuckling to his right as the intro plays out, and can't suppress his own incredulous laugh.

 

And then Courfeyrac is performing an incredible rendition of 'You Can't Hurry Love' by Phil Collins, Eponine and Cosette backing him with harmonies and cute synchronised moves. They grin and click in time as Courfeyrac sings. And he really goes for it, like a true 80's pop star, dancing with mike stand and flashing his disarming smile toward the crowd at intervals.

 

In any other situation, Jehan would be dancing along in his seat. He adores this song. Grantaire doesn't have to glance behind him to know that his friend is sitting rigid in his seat.

 

Musichetta, however, has no such reservations, and pauses in wiping down the tables to pull Joly up. 'Bopping' is really the only word for the way they start dancing. Grantaire grins. He can't help it, with Joly laughing and twirling between the tables like he's in Grease. 

 

Courfeyrac finishes with a theatrical bow and then enthusiastically scans the crowd for his poor victim.

 

"Aw, come on! Even after _that_ performance? Fine. Have it your way. Feuilly, track 32, please!"

 

Bahorel groans again and slumps onto his table.

 

Grantaire feels Jehan's grip on his hand tighten. He squeezes back, letting him know that he's ready to jump in should things get uncomfortable. He's not too proud to make a proper fool of himself for Jehan.

 

As soon as the song plays, he knows he's going to have to do _something_. Courfeyrac is crooning Eric Clapton, weaving between the tables with his cordless mike, singing to every person directly. Grantaire can feel Jehan's palms sweating. He squeezes again, and lets go. Jesus, here goes nothing. He crosses to the stage, grabs the second mike and cuts in on the second chorus before Courfeyrac can open his mouth. Everyone cheers as Grantaire makes his way back through the tables, and they get even more excitable as he comes to a stop in front of Enjolras.

 

 _This is for Jehan_. Fuck. Enjolras is looking at him like he's insane. Combeferre is hiding a smile behind his hand, but he's not fooling anyone. Courfeyrac is more than happy to hand over at this point. Grantaire knew he would be. He was counting on it. Counting on the ridiculously annoying obsession all of his friends have over his 'thing' for Enjolras. So he takes a deep breath between lines, throws away the last of his dignity, and kneels before Enjolras. _Might as well give them a good show._

 

And that was how Grantaire finds himself singing, " _and the wonder of it all is that you just don't realise how much I love you_ " to Enjolras on bended knee, during what he had thought was going to be a relatively uneventful Friday night. To top it off, he grabs Enjolras hand and presses a kiss to it before crossing back to his seat, thrusting the microphone at Courfeyrac as he passes. The backing track plays out. Everything's a little too quiet.

 

Grantaire grabs Jehan's hand, pulls him up and drags him to the door. The air of casualness is thrown off only by his poorly disguised haste.

 

Neither of them look back.

 

And Courfeyrac never does find out the identity of his secret admirer.

 

  

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

The fire escape on Jehan and Grantaire's building leads down to a courtyard of sorts, which backs onto the tiny laneway that winds between their building and the next. Barely been used by the other residents in the past, Grantaire had informally adopted the space for some of his more adventurous work. Enjolras has only been down once, for a get together during the summer a year or so back. He remembered Jehan having decked the place out with fairy lights, and someone's discarded old bathtub serving as a refrigeration device, packed with ice and beer. He remembers Bahorel and Combeferre expertly rolling joints, and Courfeyrac reclining on a sun bed sipping margaritas. His memory of the place was decidedly different to what it looked like presently.

 

He'd arrived at the door to their building at precisely 4:50 - he was nothing if not punctual. Jehan had buzzed him up, fussed over him for a few minutes, and then force fed him half a muffin. Only after Enjolras had pressed that it was now 4:57, and he'd _told Grantaire five so I really should get going_ , had Jehan led him through the apartment to the fire escape, directing him downwards, to where he was now. Leaning on the iron railings and watching Grantaire work. The Temptations were blasting through tinny speakers, and the cramped stone walls rebounding the sound till it was a trembling echo, reaching upwards toward the rooftops.

 

" _When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May..._ "

 

The banners are huge. Suspended by rope, they're at least eight foot long and a yard across. Both have a different design, a kind of comic-book representation of Francois Hollande and Jérôme Cahuzac in red, blue and white, with strong black lines and clear text, boldly declaring Enjolras' own words: " _THE TIME IS HERE_ ".

 

Grantaire balances on an upturned crate, a large brush clenched between his teeth, a smaller one in hand, being used to detail Hollande's downturned face. He's in a paint-splattered jumpsuit, that likely used to be starched white, but the colour was long ago lost to an amalgamation of colours and layers of dirt and grease. His hair is wild and swept back off his face unglamorously, which looks like the work of frustrated hands continuously being ran through it. There's a streak of vivid green just above his right temple, and a smudge of red along his stubbled jawline. 

 

He almost topples off his perch when he spots Enjolras.

 

"Fuck, jesus. When did you get here?" he exclaims, after flinging the brush from his mouth with a flick of his head. It clatters loudly as it hits the paving stones. Enjolras descends the ladder that brings him the last few metres to the ground, and crosses to where Grantaire is now fidgeting nervously, twirling the smaller paintbrush through his fingers.

 

Enjolras tries not to stare at the V of sweaty skin that's visible through the gaping neckline of the jumpsuit. 

 

"These are… these are really good." He says, and in his mind's eye he can envisage what they'll look like unfurled behind the stage, bold and unavoidable. "Perfect, they're perfect."

 

Grantaire lets out a gush of breath.

 

"Oh, thank god. I thought I'd completely fucked it up. I mean, Feuilly helped with the design, but he left me to colour it, and I dunno, it kind of got away from me and I thought you might hate it, I mean, it's not what we usually do for these things and I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to go all Roy Lichtenstein because this is _you,_ I mean… this is politics, not comic con. And Jehan loved it, but he says that about everything I do, always saying how brilliant I am, which is bullshit, and anyway it's not his approval I needed, it was yours, so I was kind of freaking out. But I couldn't go back after I'd started, you know. I was too far in, like as soon as I stylised it I was sure I'd fucked the whole thing up so thank fuck you like it, because I couldn't…"

 

" _Grantaire._ "

 

"Right. Sorry."

 

"They're really good. Trust me. It's exactly what we need."

 

Grantaire grins then, and Enjolras hates it when he does that because dammit, it's really distracting. And he doesn't know why his stomach does that stupid flip whenever Grantaire looks that happy.

 

Grantaire shrugs out of the jumpsuit's sleeves and ties them around his waist, gazing up at the banners with his 'artist face' on - pursed lips and eyes narrowed critically. He's wearing a black singlet underneath, a loose fitting one that shows off obscene amounts of his chest, and Enjolras always forgets about the boxing and the fencing, but he's certainly reminded when faced with those defined arms and lithely muscled shoulders. 

 

He knows enough to recognise physical attraction when faced with it, he's not as blind to these things as people assume. Though it's certainly true that he doesn't have a great deal of practical knowledge. And he's never been embarrassed about his inexperience, has never felt the need to defend his previous lack of interest, but something about Grantaire makes him feel like a pristine, blushing virgin. Sex had never been a priority before. It had never even featured on the list. But it's getting harder and harder to ignore and deny the way his body reacts to a certain conceited asshole of a painter.

 

He sometimes finds himself admiring Combeferre, but these days it's mostly objective appreciation. They'd put that part of their friendship behind them during high school. For the most part, at least. And he can acknowledge Courfeyrac's physical appeal, what with the perfect teeth and the hair and the abs, and Jehan's graceful, unconventional beauty - the green doe eyes and full lips, the cheekbones and sinewy build. But he's never felt carnal attraction before. He's never had to deal with passionate desire or lust. Not until Jehan had bounded into that meeting almost three years ago with a guy in tow. A guy with intense blue eyes - though he knows now that they're more of a clouded grey, like the sea during a storm - and dark, tousled curls and a crooked grin. And sharp collarbones that protruded from the threadbare grey t-shirt. And an ass that looked positively sinful in dark skinny jeans. Enjolras had fled to the bathroom after their brief introduction, and was plagued by a burning shame for the rest of the evening.

 

If there was one thing Enjolras excelled at, it was ignoring the things he didn't want to deal with. His determined, one-track mind enabled him to effectively disregard the things he would rather not acknowledge, along with distractions and all the trivial nonsense that came as a package deal with his friends. So it was with no great effort that he had managed, with only a few outlying incidents, to ignore the feelings that Grantaire inspired for the better part of three years. Combeferre had, on occasion, made a few smug, sarcastic comments over the years on how commendable Enjolras' endless self-control was. He'd always chosen to ignore those.

 

And now Grantaire is slouching against the wall lazily, a cigarette between his lips, and a strip of tantalising dark hair leading down from his navel that's on display where the jumpsuit is riding dangerously low on his hips, and his top is rucked up. Enjolras takes a deep breath and schools his features into a smile. He needs to get out of there. Now. Or he's going to seriously embarrass himself.

 

"Right, well. Thanks. Uh… I'll let you know about transporting them when we've finalised everything. Or Combeferre will. Um. See you later?"

 

Grantaire stares after him bemusedly as he hastens back up the fire escape.

 

"See you later, gorgeous." He calls up, just before Enjolras disappears into the apartment.

 

Once inside, he swallows loudly and tugs his hoody down over his crotch.

 

Thankfully, Jehan is absent.

 

But it's a decidedly unpleasant ride home on the metro.

 

 

 

 

 

He's clumsy when he finally arrives home. Yelping out a strangled 'hello' as he passes Combeferre on the couch, who gives him a quizzical look in return, he hurries to his bedroom and locks the door.

 

He runs a hand over his face, sighing. More than anything, he wishes he could control this too. He wishes he was just a little bit less human, that he wasn't susceptible to these corporeal urges. But his self control is worn thin, as is his patience, and he huffs frustratedly before collapsing onto the bed and unbuttoning his jeans. He rucks his shirt up and spreads out against the sheets, omitting a small sigh when he pushes a hand beneath his waistband. The first touch is torture. It's been far too long. He groans and shoves his pants and boxers down roughly, and this time when he closes a hand around himself, it's blissful and unrestrained, and his back arches off the bed as he reaches down to palm at his balls. He bites down a moan, horribly conscious of Combeferre in the other room, and as he spits into his hand, he realises that he doesn't give a damn how undignified the act is, he's well beyond the point of caring.

 

He can see Grantaire above him, eyes piercing and mischievous, glinting with that same smugness and insolence that so often has Enjolras seeing red. He can feel Grantaire's hands on him, ghosts of touches across his chest, fingernails scraping up the backs of his thighs. Grantaire's hands that are long-fingered and slightly rough and constantly dusted with charcoal or lead. Imaginary lips on his neck, the neck that he's baring as he writhes against the bedsheets. A hot tongue swiping against his pulse point, followed by teeth in the shape of a satisfied smirk. He buries his face sideways into the pillow, muffling his cries as his hand moves faster and seemingly of it's own volition. He pants into the open air, wishing instead that he had a sarcastic mouth on his own, with bitten-red lips and days-old stubble and would scrape deliciously along his neck and between his thighs. The image of Grantaire between his legs is all it takes for Enjolras to cry out, feet scrabbling against the bed for purchase as he comes harder than he has in years. He clamps his other hand over his gaping mouth immediately after, eyes wide and cheeks flushing. That was _loud_. Combeferre could surely hear him from the living room.

 

He collapses back onto the bed, mortified, with the hazy image of a thoroughly fucked-out Grantaire still imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.

 

Shit.

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

The astounding thing about Grantaire and Feuilly is that while they both share a passion and talent for art and music, they have one more curious common interest.

 

There is a store on the Impasse Guéménée - an oddity which looks like it belongs in a H.G. Wells novel. It's that type of place that one can only find when specifically seeking it out. It's poorly signed and easily missed, and very particular in its wares. _L'homme d'horlogerie_ , declares the sign above the door. The Clockwork Man.

 

Maybe it's a talent with fingers. Perhaps that is the trait which links the three gifts together. Musicianship, fine art, and mechanics. All require a certain dexterity that both Feuilly and Grantaire seem to possess in abundance.

 

Their friends find the shared passion and knack for cogs and hinges intriguing, if a little bizarre. It certainly comes in handy when something needs fixing, from a watch, to a phone, to Jehan's vintage typewriter. They'd crowded around in awe the first time they'd seen the two in action, when Combeferre's heirloom grandfather clock had conked out. The two had swiftly dismantled and reassembled the entire structure in less than a day, and had declared it 'simple', as though the inner workings of a one hundred and fifty year old timepiece were as straightforward as a kinder surprise toy. Which, coincidentally, thoroughly confuse Marius, who's unable to construct even a plastic three-step brontosaurus. Not that anyone holds that against him.

 

Their capacity for micro-mechanics allows them both a steady job and a reasonable income, though they both work part time elsewhere, as mending peoples old clocks and appliances doesn't quite cover half rent on a Parisian apartment.

 

They work split shifts, on alternating days, wednesday through saturday. The store is closed for the remainder of the week, when Feuilly picks up shifts in bars and in an arts supply shop, and Grantaire in an upmarket restaurant. But their job at _L'homme d'horlogerie_ is the kind of job that you get excited about. That kind of rare work that combines passion with money, and they pass their time in the dingy little store happily, content to tinker away and repair, often well past closing, as it's easy to lose track of time when immersed in the minute constructs of automation.

 

 

 

Jehan shoulders through the door, in a hurry to escape the brisk autumn wind. Grantaire glances up from his place behind the counter, hunched over some contraption, the function of which Jehan couldn't even begin to guess, and grins widely.

 

"Ah, mon petit. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

 

He pushes his zany magnifying goggles off his face (which look like an accessory to a steampunk cosplay) and accepts the kiss Jehan places on his cheek.

 

"Just thought you might like some lunch. I doubt you've eaten since last night."

 

"Perceptive as ever, darling. And thanks, very thoughtful of you." He bites into the still-hot croque monsieur, (with extra cheese and hot sauce, Jehan's not one to forget these things) and sighs happily. "God, this is delicious."

 

Jehan inspects a set of small cogs, rotating them with a finger.

 

"You're very welcome. I was thinking of inviting Feuilly and Bahorel over tonight. Feuilly's been at the store all day and you know how much of a lazy ass Bahorel is, pretty sure the last time he cooked was when we were camping and he wanted steaks. And that was over a year ago. Anyway, thought it'd be nice for Feuilly to have an easy meal."

 

Grantaire nods. "Yeah. Sounds good. I'm off in ten, we'll go stock up on the way home."

 

Jehan grins, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "Perfect. Well, now we've got ten minutes to kill. Amuse me."

 

Grantaire disappears out back for a minute, and returns with a wind up circus monkey, missing one of his symbols and chanting out a slightly creepy, disjointed song. Jehan claps delightedly and watches the defective monkey play on repeat while Grantaire tidies up the shop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

"All I'm _saying,_ " Feuilly sighs exasperatedly, "is that you can't form an opinion based on aesthetics alone. You've gotta take into account the moral, the essence, the overall message of the thing."

 

Bahorel scoffs and stabs at his potatoes. "Yeah, and I'm saying that your precious 'essence' is fucking outdated."

 

"This shouldn't even be an argument at all, I mean come on guys. Who's the real winner here? Me. I am. Because I appreciate both." Grantaire grins and shakes his head at his friends. Feuilly is scowling across the table at his roommate, as though he'd insulted his mother, his shaggy auburn hair tucked behind his ears. Bahorel is lounging in his chair, a cocky grin plastered across his face, and his legs spread languidly. The picture of arrogance.

 

"Fucking fence-sitter, man. Is what you are." Bahorel laughs and throws a snow pea at Grantaire's head. "Right. Where's the ice cream?"

 

Jehan rolls his eyes. "Nope. Not until you've finished your salad."

 

Bahorel groans and throws another snow pea toward Jehan. "Yes, _mum_."

 

Jehan twirls his fork thoughtfully. "But both of your arguments have merit. On one hand, Bahorel is right - those messages are outdated, and unfortunately they're often racist and misogynistic, too. But they're just a product of their era, society has progressed since then, and you can't decrease their value by blaming them for their own circumstance. And Feuilly is right as well," the man in question leans back and raises up his arms, as though saying 'jesus, finally. _thank you'_. "Despite the outdated prejudice and the questionable themes, they certainly hold an artistic merit that those being created nowadays severely lack."

 

"I mean, yeah, it sucks that if we want kids to see this great shit that we grew up on, we have to expose them to some pretty toxic crap." Grantaire scrapes his plate clean. "But I wouldn't want to deprive them of it either. It's all classic. Required viewing, if you ask me. Anyway, as I said before, this shouldn't even be an argument. You're defending two completely different things here. You can't justifiably compare the two. That'd be like debating the deliciousness of Cosette's strawberry tarts vs. watching the sunrise from Montmartre. They're both amazing in their own right. And it's not like one can't exist without the other. So shut the fuck up. I hereby ban Disney vs. Pixar from being an argument ever again."

 

Jehan smiles softly and wonders how a debate that started out as computer animation vs. original Disney turned into a heated argument about morality and ethics. But alas, that's often the way things go around here. And there had been an enjoyable tangent discussing Tangled, so all in all, as far as dinnertime conversations go, it had been quite entertaining.

 

"But really, if we're gonna talk about whether a movie is good or not, fuck its morals and whether or not the animations are pretty enough, it's all about the quotability."

 

Grantaire snorts. "Fair point. Quotability. I can get on board with that. Mean Girls, The Godfather, The Princess Bride. Nah man, I feel you."

 

"And Tarantino!" Feuilly declares.

 

"Monty Python."

 

"The Breakfast Club."

 

"Pshhh, what about Anchorman?"

 

"The Wizard of Oz!"

 

"Die Hard."

 

"Back to the Future."

 

"Clearly Star Wars."

 

"Clueless."

 

"Pfft. Only you, R."

 

"Hey fuck you, Cher Horowitz is flawless."

 

"Step Brothers."

 

"Eh.."

 

"Nah, Hot Fuzz."

 

"Yeah you would, red."

 

Feuilly flips them off collectively. Jehan laughs and gets up to collect the plates.

 

"Yes, jesus, ok. I'll get the fucking ice cream," he says before Bahorel can even open his mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

 

 

Feuilly and Bahorel end up staying over, as their heater has apparently given up the ghost (just before winter, brilliant timing), and Jehan is _not_ going to subject them to the cold late-september night.

 

Bahorel collapses onto the couch, groaning and stretching himself out in all his long-limbed, lithesome glory. He glances up and sighs resignedly when Feuilly emerges from the bathroom, in boxers and one of Grantaire's ratty painting t-shirts, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and looking about as menacing as a sleepy ginger kitten. He gives up completely when Feuilly yawns widely, throwing an arm across his face, before blinking his eyes blearily. There's just no denying that level of adorable. So he gets up, shoves Feuilly down onto the couch and flings a blanket at his face. Because, sure, he can be nice. But he can still be an asshole about it.

 

 

 

Jehan wakes up the following morning and pads his way through to the kitchen, trying not to wake up his guests. He squeaks a little when he glances across at them, however, seeing Feuilly's hand extended off the couch, suspiciously close to where Bahorel's own rests listlessly on the carpet. Later, people will ask him why he keeps grinning like he knows some exciting secret that no one else is in on. And he'll just shrug and shake his head, but will do a few delighted cartwheels, internally.

 

 

He starts the kettle boiling and checks his phone, and he sighs deeply when he reads the messages, already making a list in his head of bribes and coercive strategies that he'll have to use against Grantaire to get him out of bed at all now.

 

**Contact - Enjolras [recent messages]**

_Received 8:42 am:_

_Meeting tonight @ The Musain to finalise plans for this weekend's protest. Attendance mandatory. 5:30 PM._

 

And a second one, to Jehan directly:

 

**Contact - Enjolras [recent messages]**

_Received 8:44 am:_

_I trust you'll find a way to get Grantaire to the meeting. He won't listen to me, obviously. So I'm counting on you._

 

Jehan sighs, again, and wonders how a person so incredibly bright can be so incredibly dense the majority of the time. He shoots back an affirmative to Enjolras anyway. 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who suggests which movies. I dare you. 
> 
> Also my Bahorel is not huge and hunky, he's more slim and sinewy. Like he's still got the six pack and the obliques and some sexy biceps, but he's got a fairy average build otherwise. I kinda love him having this intense fighter spirit, as opposed to just having the brawny, fighter's body. But don't get me wrong, he's still tough as fuck and will take you down. (Also Boyd Holbrook is the headcanon if anyone is interested yeaaah probably not eh im going to go now)


	4. Ya’aburnee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He can hear his cry, but it doesn't sound like his own. It sounds manic, demented, discordant. He screams again, vision blurring. 
> 
> He can't see Enjolras, and he's wild."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya’aburnee  
>  _[arabic.]_ “you bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.

After all this time, she still calls it thirteen o'clock. No matter that she's just celebrated her nineteenth birthday. From the day she was taught to read the time ( _"so you got 10 o'clock yeah? that's what the time is now. then it goes? eleven, yeah. then twelve. and then what? no you dipshit, read the numbers. one is after twelve. one. uno. comprende? ah fuck it, i give up" - Claquesous' forte had never been kids_ ), it had been thirteen, not one. It's logical. I mean, duh, she can count.

  
Eponine has never had an easy relationship with time. For example, why is it 'twelve o'clock at night', but 'one o'clock in the morning'? Like, which fucker decided on that? And that AM/PM shit? I mean, technically, everything is after midday, right? Fucking 'post meridiem'. Whatever.

  
She checks her phone.

 

**Contact - Grantaire [recent messages]**

 

**_Received_ ** _11:58 am:_

_Still good for a pick up around thirteen? ;) ;)_

 

**_Sent_ ** _12:11 pm:_

_Yep. Thanks, dipshit. Don't forget the banners. Wouldn't want Enj to have to spank you._

 

**_Sent_ ** _12:12 pm:_

_Sorry babes, hope you weren't driving when you got that xx_

 

**_Received_ ** _12:17 pm:_

_Wow, muchas gracias. Just popped a boner in the middle of a coffee shop. Fuck you very much._

 

**_Received_ ** _12:19 pm:_

_But alas, unfortunately I can't kill you. According to Courfeyrac there's some sort of moral code that frowns upon casual homicide. Who knew._

 

**_Received_ ** _12:20 am:_

_We'll be there at half past._

 

She cranes her neck to check the time on the oven clock, thankful that Joly and Bossuet's open plan flat means she doesn't have to get up from her nest on the sofa to see through to the kitchen. She's been crashing with them for the past week - they have the second best couch (and staying with Combeferre and Enjolras, who have the _greatest_ couch, is always that little bit awkward. Seeing Enjolras in pyjamas is just too fucking weird). They'd both left earlier to meet the others at the train station, but not before Joly had triple checked his first aid kit and reminded Eponine to lock the door behind her no less than fourteen times.  

 

She double checks with the oven clock knowing that her phone is at least ten minutes fast. It needs to be, or she'd never get anywhere remotely on time. The green digits across the room proclaim _12:07_. One hour, twenty three minutes to shower and get her shit together. Easy. She snuggles back down into the blankets, knowing that she's got her morning routine down to an impressive seven minutes and can spare some time. Her two minute showers are a practiced skill. She wriggles her toes under the blankets and tucks her face into the pillow, shielding it from the chill of the morning, purposefully prolonging the dozy comfort before the inevitable dash to the warmth of the shower.

 

 

 

The incessant buzzing starts at around twenty past. She stalks across to the intercom, halfway through tying her hair back, elastic between her teeth.

 

"Yes, _ok_ you fuckers. I'm on my way down."

 

She shrugs into her 'protest hoodie', a faded-from-black thing that hangs loosely off her small frame and is a hand-me-down from Grantaire. _DOWN WITH THE MONARCHY!_ is scrawled across the back in red paint marker.

 

Grantaire and Courfeyrac are lounging against the car when she jogs out onto the street, the former blowing lazy smoke rings, and the latter practically vibrating with excitement.

 

"Yo, come on. The others are already on the train, we're gonna have to leg it."

 

Courfeyrac ruffles Eponine's hair on his way round to the driver's seat, which earns him an acidic glare. She hates little more than people messing with her bangs. She steals Grantaire's smoke from where it's propped between his lips, and takes a long, satisfied drag. The afternoon light is dull and grey, and the rain paints the towers of Notre Dame in a soft blue haze, towering above the rooftops at the street's end. The light drizzle crowns their hair with tiny droplets, and pedestrians wielding umbrellas hurry along the street, the majestic stonework of the Hôpital Hôtel Dieu casting them in shadows. 

 

Grantaire, looking undeniably tantalising in the dark jeans Cosette had made him buy for the incredible favours they did to his ass, winks at her and flops back into the front seat. His combat boots and threadbare henley complete the air of carelessness that he is obviously going for. Eponine doesn't even bother rolling her eyes at his completely unsubtle attempts at seduction, though she doesn't doubt that those pants _will_ have the desired effect. It's just that Grantaire will likely remain unaware of his own success. 

 

Courfeyrac leans on the horn till Eponine climbs into the backseat. She flips him off, and then redirects the gesture to the old hag shouting and shaking her walking stick in their direction as Courfeyrac pulls out into the street, speeding toward the Pont d'Arcole, and away from the Île de la Cité.

 

 

 

 

It takes roughly two hours by train to get to Lyon from Paris. Enjolras watches the countryside flash by while Combeferre goes through the plan, for the third time. And once he's finished discussing how they _hope_ the protest will go down, he begins going over the Emergency Protocol (capitalised at the insistence of Courfeyrac), in the event that it all goes to shit. The way he continues to grill each of them on what they're expected to be doing in the Worst Case Scenario is probably a good indication of just how likely he thinks 'Worst Case Scenario' will be. Enjolras frowns. Planning escape strategies feels like admitting defeat before they've even arrived, and just how much time has his oldest friend been spending with Grantaire? But Combeferre is usually a good judge of these sorts of things, so Enjolras bites his tongue and prepares himself.

 

"Ok, last time, I swear. We just can't afford to fuck this up when it happens." He catches Enjolras' venomous look. "Sorry, _if._ If it happens. Bahorel?"

 

Bahorel raises his hand, as though he's proclaiming attendance. "Stick with Enjolras, no matter what."

 

"Feuilly."

 

"Keep an eye on the perimeter. If there's any violence, get Cosette out."

 

The girl in question huffs and folds her arms across her chest.

 

"You know it's not like that." Combeferre leans forward to rest a hand on her shoulder from across the train carriage. "Trust us, we know firsthand how well you can take care of yourself. Point is, you're an easy target, and no matter how feisty, you're small. Besides, none of us would live to see the light of day if Valjean were to find out that you were hurt on our watch."

 

Her mouth twists into a scowl of begrudging acceptance, and she nods.

 

"Laigle?"

 

Bossuet raises a hand and begins counting on his fingers. "One, get Joly away from the violence. He's no help to anyone unconscious." He frowns deeply at the thought of Joly being hurt, and the boy in question reaches across to his free hand, tangling their fingers together. "Two, try and stop Eponine from doing anything stupid. Three, try to stop 'Chetta from taking off any clothes." Joly chuckles. "And _if_ anyone goes down, get them to Joly."

 

"Perfect. Joly?"

 

"Get out of the way. Get my kit. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

 

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence. Combeferre clears his throat.

 

"Cosette?"

 

"Don't be a martyr. And no biting whoever gets sent to pull me out." Bahorel grimaces and rubs away the phantom pain on his forearm. But he grins back when Cosette sends him a smirk.

 

"Marius?"

 

"Uh, find the best vantage point. Keep on the lookout for any trouble, or any violence from the police." He shifts a little uncomfortably at the last, and Enjolras is reminded of a comment a while back during a discussion on police brutality. _But the police are there to help, aren't they?_ He also remembers Grantaire's unabashed laughter, though he's not quite sure why that sticks out in particular.

 

"Oh, and don't forget the megaphone!" Marius exclaims belatedly. He may be capable of many things, but bellowing over the roar of a crowd is not one of them. If he has a warning to give, they need to be able to hear him.

 

"Jehan?"

 

"Keep track of everyone where possible. Do head counts. Constantly. Try not to get knocked out."

 

Jehan is the most sharp witted of them all, and is always in charge of keeping tabs. He picks at the edge of his navy sweater in either nervousness or anticipation.

 

"Right. Courfeyrac and I will help Bossuet should there be any injuries. Otherwise we'll be trying to divert and direct the crowd. Grantaire will stick with Bahorel."

 

" _Obviously._ " Bossuet mutters. " _As if you could keep him away._ "

 

Cosette giggles, and Enjolras frowns, feeling like he's missed something.

 

"Enjolras?"

 

"Mmm."

 

"I know you loathe to consider the possibility, but if this all goes pear-shaped, we need to be prepared. You know what to do?"

 

He sighs and runs a hand through his curls. There's no point challenging Combeferre, you'd never win.

 

" _Don't be an idiot_."

 

Combeferre laughs, but rests a reassuring hand on Enjolras' forearm. "Yeah, basically."

 

 

 

 

 

There's a fifteen minute detour to pick Musichetta up from the café. The four of them are following the rest on the next train from Gare du Nord, and needed the car to get the cumbersomely large banners from Grantaire and Jehan's place to the station. No one had been too keen on hauling ass on the metro with them.

 

It's raining properly by the time they pull into Boulevard Barbès, and Musichetta is _tsk_ -ing over Grantaire and his weather-inappropriate attire, _"you better have brought a coat, you absolute moron"._

 

As it happens, he does have a jacket. But they're all soaked by the time the collapse into the train carriage, anyway. 

 

Courfeyrac looks balefully at the slightly damp banners, rolled up and propped between the seats, and begins rearranging his soggy fringe with a sigh.

 

"The things we do."

 

Grantaire snorts, his smirk a little bitter.

 

Eponine burrows further into Musichetta's soft and musky sweater, chasing the memory of the morning's cosy blankets.

 

 

 

 

 

At Combeferre's suggestion, because he can't seem to stop fidgeting, Enjolras get's out his iPod and tries to refocus his nervous energy. He scrolls through his playlists, ones for study, ones for insomnia, dozens made by Courfeyrac that he boycotts on principle. There's one he doesn't recognise - the title not artless enough to be his, and not exuberant enough to be Courfeyrac's (ie. neither 'Study Playlist #2' nor '$$! PaRTaAY D0wNnnn !$$*#')

 

With a label like 'Enjy's Protest Pump-Up Playlist ur welcome', Enjolras doesn't have to puzzle particularly hard over who might have been it's creator. There's only one person who has the gall to call him 'Enjy' to his face.

 

He sighs, curiosity winning out against annoyance, and selects the playlist.

 

_1\. Top Gun Anthem - Harold Faltermeyer_

(He fights the exasperated smirk that he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth… as well as the fervour stirring low in his stomach.) 

 

_2\. Wing$ - Macklemore_

(Ok, so maybe he enjoyed that one a little.)

 

_3\. Long Live The Queen - Frank Turner_  

(Which he suspects is there for it's title more than it is for it's inspirational qualities, though he does have a hazy memory of Grantaire declaring his love for Frank Turner.)

 

_4\. Hips Don't Lie - Shakira_  

(He really is stumped by this one.)

 

_5\. The Boxer - Jerry Douglas, Mumford & Sons_

(Very stirring.)

 

_6\. Revolution - Jim Sturgess_  

(Which, he has to admit, does make him smile.)

 

_7\. Welcome Home, Son - Radical Face_

(With this song, he starts to think Grantaire has begun to take the playlist seriously.)

 

_8\. Take On Me - A-ha_

(Obviously, he was mistaken.)

 

_9\. 5, 6, 7, 8 - Steps_

(Combeferre raises a sardonic eyebrow at Enjolras' groan.)

 

_10\. Radioactive - Imagine Dragons_

(Ok, things are starting to get back on track.)

 

_11\. Durban Skies - Bastille_

(If his pulse is racing a little more than usual by the end of the song, well, no one's the wiser.)

 

_12\. Midnight City - M83_

(The song crescendos as they step onto the platform, and Enjolras has the heady realisation that the cause of his thrumming pulse is two parts anticipation for the protest, and one part the inexplicable urge to be near Grantaire.)

 

 

 

Lyon is arguably similar to Paris, with the Rhône and the Saône bisecting the city. With lights that reflect off the water like an enchantment, and the gorgeous Renaissance architecture which paints a handsome picture. It may lack the grandeur, but it has no less charm.

 

Gavroche Thenardier doesn't know Lyon. But he does know Paris, and he knows how a city works. He's intimately familiar with natural byways and which alley will turn out to be a handy shortcut, and which will suck you in and take you hours out of your way. He is also intimately familiar with Combeferre's paralysing disapproval, and knows that facing that carefully controlled frown, and Courfeyrac's hysterics, and Enjolras' best glare, is what he'll be receiving if he's caught out. But what's life without a little risk?

 

He steps onto the platform and loses himself immediately in the crowd, keeping a sharp eye out for Bahorel's bedraggled dishwater blonde hair, or the rich auburn of Feuilly's, and especially Enjolras' head of artfully tousled blonde curls. 

 

Wow. 'Artfully tousled'. He spends too much time around Grantaire. And Grantaire spends too much time spouting poetic nonsense exalting Enjolras' hair. 

 

But it is easy to spot, that much is true. _The boy is nothing if not entirely conspicuous,_ Gavroche reflects philosophically, before flinging himself over the ticket gates and blowing a kiss over his shoulder to the station security that's now giving chase. He grins as he darts through the crowds, and keeps up the run when he emerges onto the street, though he knows he's well and truly lost them. Running simply adds the the excitement of it all.

 

 

 

Enjolras isn't often nervous. He detests nerves. That distinct feeling of 'butterflies' especially. But he's certainly nervous now. Sweaty palms, raised pulse, incessant fidgeting, the whole nine yards. It doesn't make a lot of sense - the crowd isn't overly large, the protest isn't overly ambitious, the stakes aren't dangerously high - but does anything ever? Sometimes people get nervous. He figures that today, unfortunately, just happens to be one of those days.

 

Combeferre does his best to assuage him, but even his boundless calm is unsuccessful. And Courfeyrac's boisterous encouragement is more grating than it is reassuring. A crowd is milling round their impromptu stage, and Feuilly and Bahorel have just finished hanging and weighting the banners. Enjolras turns to watch as they unfurl, and his breath catches a little when they finally hang outstretched, swinging slightly and rippling in the breeze.

 

The red and blue look striking against the dull brown bricks of the building, and stand out, daring, against the overcast sky. Enjolras smiles despite himself, and he tries to not do too much ego-stroking, looking up at his own words painted bold and unavoidable. A hand appears on his shoulder, and he starts slightly, before turning to see Grantaire beside him, staring up at his own work. His lips are quirked, and Enjolras turns back to the banners, if only to avoid staring at those obscenely tight jeans. 

 

"So. What's the verdict?"

 

Enjolras casts a glance sideways, but Grantaire's face betrays nothing. The most frustrating thing about him, Enjolras swears. To know what Grantaire is thinking is to achieve the impossible. Which is particularly problematic for Enjolras, who is constantly questioning whether Grantaire's comments are intended as a sarcastic quip, a serious contribution, or a joke at his own suspense.

 

"I already told you. They're fantastic. Thank you." As an afterthought, he adds, "You actually came through for once."

 

Grantaire snorts and shakes his head, displacing a few curls from behind his ear. Enjolras watches the progress of his hand as it tucks them back.

 

"I can't be a disappointment all the time, can I? Gotta mix it up every now and again." He grins easily, but doesn't quite meet Enjolras' eye.

 

"Well. I'm glad you did."

 

Grantaire looks across at him briefly, a small, forced smile on his lips. He swallows, and nods a few times, as if to himself. His hand returns to his hair, in a nervous gesture, and his blue eyes flash once more before they disappear beneath dark lashes and he disappears back in the crowd.

 

Enjolras is left standing alone, thoroughly puzzled. Any last hopes he'd harboured of one day understanding Grantaire are carried off in the next sharp breeze. As he turns to look for Combeferre, however, he finds that at some point during the conversation, his nervousness had escaped him entirely.

 

 

 

The crowd is electric. There's a thrumming in the air like a tangible adrenaline, and the chanting cadence they shout out till they're hoarse is the sweetest music Enjolras has ever heard. He pushes the hair from his face, damp with sweat, and sweeps his gaze across the square, unable to resist a triumphant grin. His speech had been perfectly effective. Combeferre had stood to the side, radiating a contained pride, and Courfeyrac had lost his voice prompting the crowd with his passionate cries and well-timed objections. 

 

Looking back on it all, none of them were quite sure whether Marius' warning was drowned out by the crowd, or was simply forgotten amidst the excitement. Either way, the police had kettled the entire congregation into the square before Enjolras could even wipe the smile off his face.

 

Everything after that, predictably, is a blur.

 

The young girl with the spiked hair, looking barely over sixteen, being encroached upon by the police line. The indignation written across her features, clear even to Enjolras, two hundred metres away. The violent surge of the crowd as he pushes his way toward her, overcome with a fierce protectiveness that he distantly thinks might have had something to do with the way the girl's spitfire fury is so reminiscent of their own girls, and _what if it was one of them in her place?_ The deafening shouts of defiance that erupt from all around him. Bahorel's hands on his shoulders, and then around his waist, and then a minute of struggle that Enjolras can barely recall before the hands are gone and he's moving again.

 

By the time he reaches the police line, the girl is being dragged away shouting by a fierce-looking woman with dreadlocks and a middle-aged man. Enjolras is just in time to see the bruise appearing on her cheekbone, and the trickle of blood from her lip, before she disappears back into the press of people. He starts shouting, though he's unaware of the words his mouth is forming. He can feel a hotness on his cheeks, and wonders distractedly if he's crying, and then there's someone yelling his name, and it sounds feral and half-crazed… his next thought hasn't even begun to form before he's blinking against the oncoming blackness.

 

 

 

Grantaire sees Enjolras wrench himself out of Bahorel's grasp, and then he's gone again. Completely out of sight. The anger and adrenaline that surges inside of him is almost overwhelming, and he shoves himself further into the unforgiving tangle of shoulders and elbows.

 

Almost there.

 

A glint of gold against a backdrop of plastic riot shields.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Grantaire knows he's being rough, hurling people impatiently to the side as he tries to get through. He's unceremonious and brutal, but his ears are ringing and he can barely register that these are, in fact, people. All he's aware of is the backwards motion of the crowd, and _why is no one getting out of my fucking way_ _don't they understand what's at risk here_. He feels like that one trout that's smaller than the rest, and can't, for the the life of him, swim against the current. Like a child lost and pushed along by the throng of commuters in Saint-Lazare station during rush hour. People press into him from all angles, and he can't move, he can't get past. He can't breathe.

 

A surge of the crowd, an advancement of the police line, and a glint of gold caught between.

 

Grantaire sees it play out in his mind before it even happens, hears the sickening crunch, loud enough to register over the piercing buzz in his ears.

 

He screams out Enjolras' name, thrashing savagely against the people blocking his way, and he can hear his cry, but it doesn't sound like his own. It sounds manic, demented, discordant. He screams again, vision blurring. He can't see Enjolras, and he's wild.

 

 

 

 

Gavroche watches Enjolras go down, too. Before the blow even connects, he's halfway there, ducking in and out of spaces where no one else could fit. It's almost as if the blonde falls in slow motion, while Gavroche hurtles through the crowd at full speed, so that by the time he arrives, Enjolras is just hitting the pavement. Between Enjolras crumpling and Gavroche's leap toward the nearest officer, barely a second passes.

 

 

 

It's Musichetta who finds him.

 

She's forcing her way through the dispersing crowd, on the lookout for Eponine, when she spots a shape splayed against the paving stones, surrounded by frantic, heedless feet. Her heart stops for a beat, two, three. And then she's running, collapsing to the ground beside the kid, willing him to be someone she doesn't recognise. She doesn't even have time to register the cruelty of that thought, because she's turning the boy onto his back, and it's him. It's heartbreakingly, unmistakably, Gavroche.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. A cliffhanger.
> 
> Oops?


	5. Greng-jai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends on the steps of Sacré Cœur, watching the sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greng-jai  
>  _[thai.]_ that feeling you get when you don't want someone to do something for you because it would be a pain for them.

Seeing Courfeyrac cry is like seeing the everything good in the world being burnt to the ground. Seeing Courfeyrac heaving with harsh, dry sobs that wrack his body in a way that makes his muscles ache and his shoulders curl forwards in weak defence- well, there's nothing more painful.

 

Combeferre's hair is an unruly mess, having been subjected to the frantic pull of his fingers. His mouth is set in a hard line, and his eyes are infinitely weary. 

 

They're still in the square, mostly empty now, save a scattered few tending to minor injuries, and a handful of police hovering at the perimeter. It must look a poetic scene, Combeferre muses, in between each throb of his cranium. 

 

Gavroche, lying prone on the sooty pavement. Musichetta crouched over him, tears streaking dramatic lines of mascara down her cheeks. Joly on the boy's other side, his trembling hand clasped between Bossuet's. Eponine sitting, straight backed, on the ground, blinking stonily at the greying sky, Jehan behind her, massaging smooth lines into her neck, his own bottom lip trembling. Marius, sitting by the two of them, posture rigid and eyes wide and wet.

 

Courfeyrac, on his knees, crying convulsively. Silently. His face contorted, the only audible sounds his heavy, shuddered breaths. Refusing to let anyone touch him. 

 

Combeferre, the lone person left standing, feet planted solidly on the ground, if only to hide the slight tremor in his legs. 

 

Around them is the debris of the crowd, fluttering gently in the dusk's oncoming wind. Abandoned signs, litter, solitary shoes. Grim looking blood smears on the pavement where the police line had been. A scattering of detritus is all that remains of the furious host of protesters. The only evidence of their presence in the lingering scent of sweat and rubber on the air, and the heady note of metallic iron, like the taste of blood on your tongue. And Combeferre, left in the wake, amongst the flotsam and jetsam of a frenzied crowd, left trying to stand in the deceptive calm of the aftermath. The wind tugs at his sleeves, the sky is dimming, and discarded scraps of paper and cloth are picked up by the breeze and blown about carelessly. He takes a breath.

 

Bahorel and Feuilly approach from across the square, Cosette in tow. She has a graze on her cheek, and her eyes narrowed in staunch defiance. Combeferre's frown deepens, remarkably. He heaves in another breath through his nose, pinching the bridge of it between two fingers.

 

"Enjolras?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

 

"No sign. Of R, either. But I saw him go down after Enj, so it's pretty safe to assume that they're together," Bahorel reports, and Combeferre feels Feuilly's hand settle on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

 

"He's in good hands, then." Combeferre states dully. 

 

Feuilly's grip tightens slightly, comfortingly. "I don't doubt it. You know there's no one who'd look after him better. Except perhaps you."

 

Combeferre turns to him, and his posture feels defeated. But he lacks all strength, is drained of it, and can't quite seem to draw himself back up. He brings a hand up to rest over Feuilly's own.

 

"I'd like to think so. But honestly, even I can't care for Enjolras that much." He sighs, guiltily acknowledging in the back of his mind that he probably shouldn't be talking of such things behind Grantaire's back. "He's safe."

 

Cosette has made it to Eponine's side by now, whispering quietly in her ear. She leads her from Jehan's half embrace and across to Courfeyrac, whose shoulders are still shaking, eyes not having left the small body ten feet away. Courfeyrac stiffens at the proximity, shrinks back, but Cosette knows ( _Cosette always knows_ ) how well the two have always comforted each other. She smiles sadly when Courfeyrac sinks into Eponine's arms, clinging like she's the only thing anchoring him to this earth, and turns back to Marius.

 

Joly's serene, mollifying voice floats up into the air, asking a string of questions. Combeferre's head snaps up.

 

He's awake.

 

_He's awake._

 

Joly's still talking, "Hey, can you hear me? Squeeze 'Chetta's hand for me, Gav. Can you do that for me?"

 

He glances across to Musichetta, who gives him a small nod, eyes bright with hope again.

 

"Do you know what day it is today?"

 

A small groan.

 

"Stay with us, love, alright? Do you know where you are?"

 

Another groan, more pronounced this time.

 

Courfeyrac is scrambling across to the boy, scuffing his jeans on the stones, and grazing his hands heedlessly.

 

"Gav, _Gavroche._ Jesus christ. Hey, look at me. Can you look at me? I'm here. Hey, _I'm here_. It's me." He gulps in air like he's been held under water for minutes and has just resurfaced.

 

The kid groans, his head shifts a little toward Courfeyrac's voice.

 

"Ughnf. Courf. Sto' yellun a' me."

 

The sound Courfeyrac emits is strangled and hysterical, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. 

 

Eponine appears then, too. She starts stroking back Gavroche's hair, blinking away furious tears.

 

Joly leans closer, "Gav, that's great. Keep talking. Can you tell me where you are?"

 

" _Y'thing I'm an idiod?_ "

 

Courfeyrac laugh-sobs again, one hand clamped across his mouth.

 

Joly huffs, shaking his head incredulously. There's a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

 

Gavroche groans again.

 

"How are you feeling, love? Keep talking to me. Can you tell me what happened?"

 

"M'fine. Don' call me love, though. S'weird."

 

Eponine snorts, brushing away the tears from her face, trying to hide the fact she'd cried at all.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

Enjolras wakes up, blinking to unstick his eyes, unsure of when he even fell asleep.

 

He's still sitting on the cool metallic bench, surrounded by glaring white walls and fluorescent overheads. He groans, trying to exercise some movement back into his fingers, trapped between the small of his back and the wall. The plastic cuffs are cutting into the skin of his wrists, and his feet have gone to sleep. His shoulders are stiff and uncomfortable, twisted backwards awkwardly. He shifts on the bench, trying to find some semblance of comfort.

 

He flicks his tongue out to taste the familiar tang of salt and iron on his bottom lip, and wrinkles his nose to feel the crusted blood there crack and split. His face is stinging, high on his cheek, just beneath his right eye. So. That could've gone better. Combeferre is going to be fucking furious.

 

He surveys the room fuzzily, trying to blink away the spots of colour from behind his eyes. He can't recall much of anything, beyond someone calling out his name frantically, and that final blow before he hit the pavement. He wonders where the others ended up, and swallows down the dual surge of fear and protectiveness at the possibility of anyone being hurt.

 

A young police officer walks by, holding a stack of paperwork, and sends him a cocky smirk. Enjolras turns his nose up and glares back icily. Grantaire had once said that he had a " _Haughty Don't Fuck With My Clique_ " look. He wonders if this is the look he was referring to. Which is a stupid thing to wonder. This is ridiculous. Grantaire is ridiculous.

 

And also walking straight towards him.

 

"Oh, good. You're conscious." He says as he approaches, and Enjolras swears he's never seen such fury in those eyes before. They look like the sea during a lightning storm. Enjolras finds himself shrinking back unconsciously.

 

Grantaire stops before him, and Enjolras can see his hands shaking at his sides, and there's so much raw emotion in his eyes that he almost has to look away. His pulse is thrumming and he finds himself swallowing slowly. He watches the way Grantaire's eyes track the movement of his throat, and shivers. 

 

Grantaire's voice, when he speaks, is low and quiet, a fierceness to it given away only by the slight shakiness.

 

"If you pull something like that again, I swear to god I will fucking remove your head from your shoulders myself. _Do you even_ … _What the fuck did you think_ …" His questions are all aborted, bitten off. Statements spat out and extinguished by emotion. 

 

He takes a long, slow breath. Stomach first, then chest. _Diaphragmatic breathing_ , Enjolras' brain supplies.

 

Grantaire lowers himself down onto his haunches. His whole body is shaking. Enjolras can see the tension in his shoulders, everything so carefully restrained.

 

" _Enjolras,_ " Grantaire bites out, on an exhale, his name mingled with a frustrated sigh. Somehow it seems a fitting way for Grantaire to address him.

 

A trembling hand comes up to rest at his jawline, the most feather-light of touches, fingers barely skirting the skin there. He hooks his index finger under Enjolras' chin, his thumb gingerly brushing the skin below his lips.

 

" _Don't_.."

 

He looks down, sniffling quietly and shaking his head.

 

When he glances back up his eyes are glistening, and Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath, his heart skittering in his chest. He feels overwhelmed. And confused. Completely unsure what to expect. And he detests being on unsteady ground. 

 

"Just, _don't_. Ever again. Yeah? I couldn't…"

 

Another breath.

 

"I couldn't deal with that, ok. I couldn't… I couldn't live with myself, either. If anything were to happen.. I…"

 

Enjolras exhales shakily as an officer impatiently calls out to Grantaire from across the room, cutting off his unsteady flow of words. He feels an intense surge of relief as those grey-blue eyes tear away from his own. Grantaire crosses the room, tension written plainly in the taught line of his shoulders, his clenched hands.

 

Another officer comes to cut Enjolras free of his cuffs.

 

He ignores the uncomfortable sting of his wrists, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets to hide the way they're shaking.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

They receive no communication from Grantaire or Enjolras, but with a barely conscious thirteen year old to safely return home, they have to prioritise. There's a unanimous agreement that there's really nowhere safer for them to be but together, anyway.

 

Once on the train, the exhaustion becomes apparent. Joly is sagging, and his movements are tired as he wakes Gavroche after roughly an hour, to allay his fears of concussion. Bossuet can barely move but to rub circles into the small of Joly's back. Courfeyrac is dead to the world, curled across Eponine's lap, and she cards her fingers through his hair in a soothing gesture, and Combeferre can't quite tell whether it's meant as a comfort for Courfeyrac or herself. The others are all silent and weary, the only movement in the carriage being the slight jostle of heads as the train shifts.

 

It takes roughly two hours by train to get to Lyon from Paris.

 

The minutes drag.

 

It's well and truly night by the time they pull into the station, and even Combeferre has drifted into an uneasy sleep against the cool glass of the window.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

Grantaire is silent for the entire journey home. The walk to the train station seems to cool him off marginally, and his anger has subsided into bone-tiredness by the time they climb on board.

 

It's almost midnight, and Enjolras watches the droplets against the window as it begins to rain.

 

Grantaire sags into his side, and Enjolras hasn't the heart to point out that there's a completely empty seat opposite that looks perfectly adequate for sleeping. The artist is already half asleep, one leg curled beneath him, hands resting childlike in his lap.

 

Enjolras drifts off several times throughout the journey, and every time he wakes he swears the space between them has lessened. By the time they pull into Gare du Nord, Grantaire is pressed up against him, radiating warmth. One of his curls brushes the underside of Enjolras' jaw, and in a completely unrelated action, he reaches across to thread his fingers through Grantaire's. 

 

Grantaire squeezes back tightly, even in sleep.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

Marius and Courfeyrac's place is warm and comfortable and safe. Cosette stirs sugar into her tea and tries to ignore the unpleasant twisting of her stomach. She can only let out an unsteady breath when she feels Marius' arms encircle her from behind. She sags into the reassuring weight of him, and all she manages to feel in that moment is grateful.

 

Combeferre is on the couch with Courfeyrac curled into his side and Eponine's head pillowed on his lap. He looks completely wrecked, but his hand doesn't waver as he threads his fingers soothingly through Eponine's hair.

 

The rest are asleep, and quiet settles about the apartment like a blanket. The rain beats upon the windows.

 

Marius steals a sip of her tea, and she smiles a little, for the first time in hours.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

It's just gone 2:30 when there's a soft knock on the door. Feuilly, who can only ever manage to sleep in restless bursts, is awake to answer it. Most of the others stir at the sound and blink themselves into consciousness.

 

Feuilly opens the door to reveal Grantaire, hunched with the weight of his sodden clothes, his face wet with rain. There's a determination in his eyes that is gradually giving way to his exhaustion. He sniffs quietly, and then collapses into Feuilly's waiting arms. The rest are in motion within seconds, peeling his clothes off, bundling him in blankets. Jehan places a barrage of gentle kisses upon his forehead and cheeks.

 

And Combeferre stands in the threshold, staring through the door. And his face is full of fury, his posture is angry, but his eyes swim with nothing but naked relief. 

 

He pulls Enjolras inside by the collar, lips trembling, and then envelops him in a bone crushing hug.

 

No one has ever or will ever be able to stay angry at Enjolras. They try, they really do. When he's stupid or reckless, they try to be mad, they try to seem cross and distant, but it always falls through after half an hour. No one's quite sure why. It's just one of those things.

 

So there's not a moments hesitation before he's surrounded by his friends, drying him down, urging him out of his drenched jacket, bundling him up and pushing him down onto the couch. 

 

No one says a word about the split lip, or the harsh bruise below his eye. Instead they turn sad eyes to Grantaire, who refuses to meet anyone's gaze, frowning out the window at the rain. They know who was hurt the most by all this, who's going to bear the most telling scars. And it certainly isn't Enjolras.

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

Nobody sleeps after that. There's a restlessness that comes with being together again after days like these. The rain subsides, making room for more quiet. 

 

Jehan makes Grantaire tea. Combeferre dabs at the cuts on Enjolras' face and arms with antiseptic. Eponine brushes Cosette's hair in long, unhurried strokes. The sky begins turning to the purpled hue of dawn. 

 

Courfeyrac reappears from his bedroom, where he and Joly had been sitting as Gavroche slept.

 

"I want to go to Sacré Cœur" he says, his brown eyes drooping under the weight of the last twenty four hours. He has his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his shoulders are bowed under some invisible weight. He looks cautiously hopeful. 

 

And really, who could deny that boy anything?

 

 

_ _

 

 

 

The city basks in an ethereal glow, 5:45am doing magical things to the charming Montmartre rooftops and the skyline beyond. They collapse, exhausted, at the top of the steps, disturbing a flock of plump tourist-fed pigeons.

 

Courfeyrac sits dead centre, face turned to the rising sun, and they all feel a little less shitty as soon as some of that precious warmth has returned to his face. Combeferre and Enjolras flank him, sitting close, and they spread out from there along the topmost step like birds on a wire. Gavroche was stubborn in a way he could only have learned from Enjolras, and had been carried the whole way on Bahorel's back. He sits now between Courfeyrac's knees, bundled up in everyone else's clothing to protect him from the cool dawn air.

 

Some time around 6:00, Grantaire breaks the silence, "By they way, I'm not paying for this bastard's bail by myself, you assholes. Sticking it to the man costs a pretty penny these days."

 

Bahorel snorts from Grantaire's other side, but it's Enjolras, on Grantaire's left (they seem to gravitate toward each other more and more these days, whenever opportunity presents itself…) that turns to reply.

 

"I really am sorry," he whispers, playing at discretion, "I didn't mean to make you worry."

 

Grantaire is quiet for a moment, staring at his hands. Then he huffs out a resigned sigh, lips twitching into that self-deprecating little smile he's mastered so well.

 

"I appreciate the sentiment, really, but I'm always going to worry with you, y'know, the way you are…" he makes a vague gesture with his hand, laughs again, "Don't worry about me, Chief. I'll be fine. Let me do my fretting in peace."

 

"Don't call me that," Enjolras chides softly, no bite at all in the remark, he's simply too caught up in the idea that Grantaire worries about him - about _him…_ and _all the time_ \- to come up with anything else to say.

 

"Sorry, what should I call you instead? Baby? Darling? No wait, I've got it - _sugar-lips!_ " He smirks around the pet name in a way that's one part mischievous and two parts sinful.

 

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat, and hopes it passes as the warm red light of sunrise on his face. 

 

"Don't ever call me sugar-lips."

 

"I make no promises."

 

And christ, why does he have to look like that - chuckling to himself, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Relaxed, and painted in the shades of one of Turner's great masterpieces, all soft pinks and oranges and butternut yellow. Enjolras feels his heart do a little free fall, his chest is tight and fluttery all at once, and he finds that he quite likes the feeling.

 

 

 

 

Grantaire sneaks a look at Enjolras from under half-closed eyelids, and catches him staring, lips parted, eyes wide. When he realises he's been caught out, the shy flutter off his lashes is the sweetest thing Grantaire has ever seen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo dears. It's only been about what? A year? Yeah oops. Thought maybe I'd crack the old girl open again and see what happens. It's so nice to look at everything again, all afresh. I really did miss writing all these idiots.   
> Smooches x


End file.
